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nion Square Series, No, 3. Pri c e, 50 cents. 

SUED Monthia’. march, 1894. Annual Subscription, $6.00. 

Entered at the New York postofflce aa second-claas mail matter. 





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OCIETY’S 

PROTEGI^E 


By MAUDE JAMES CHILTON. 


NEW YORK: 

CLEVELAND PUBLISHING COMPANY, 

19 Union Square. 




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SOCIETY’S PROTEGEE. 




A NOVEL, 



By MAUDE JAMES CHILTON. 


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Within the book of every woman’s life 

Some branded page lies hidden blank perchance, 

As if she would some past misdeed blot out; 

Or sacrosant from other memories hold 

One loftiest emotion, that once, and only once. 

Had fierce responses waked in her soul— and died. 






V 





NEW YORK: 


CLEVELAND PUBLISHING COMPAN 


19 Union Square, 



Copyright, 1894, by 

The Cleveland Publishing Company, 
19 Union Square, 

New York. 


(All rights reserved.) 


TO 

JOSEPH TUCKER, Esquike, 

OF ENGLAND, 

I AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATE THIS BOOK. 





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VfcATj 



SOCIETY’S PROTfecfiE. 


On boaed S. S. Teutonic, ) 
November^ 1891. f 

I FEEL I am going to do the one supremely 
idiotic action of my life in confiding to a 
journal my hopes 'and fears, triumphs and de- 
feats, but then they always said at school I 
was frivole, and 1 suppose this is proof 
positive. 

I found you, “ Madame Diary,” this morn- 
ing in my trunk, put there by my dear mamma. 
ISTo doubt she knew intuitively that a girl 
wants some one to confide in, and I imagine 
she thought you the most discreet repository 
for my many secrets. I should hate to say 
you have struck me as being stupid, but you 
do certainly gaze into my face in a very 
blank manner. After that pretty speech I 


SOCIETY'S PROTioiE, 


intend to make you as wise as myself, so 
you may be able to change your expression. 

Here am I — Beatrix Antwerpen — on board 
the Teutonic, not sailing, but smoking from out 
three smokestacks each doing its utmost to 
reach the dear old city of Hew York — for it is 
old to me. If the world at large had only 
been interested it would have known that I 
had only graced this mundane sphere with my 
presence for eighteen years. As I have been 
obliged to be honest — and that is a policy I 
shall under every circumstance affect with 
you, '‘^Madame Confidante ” — and acknowledge 
eighteen years, I want to confess that it is 
a most uncomfortable age, because you really 
must give up the ingenue and consider the 
advisability of doing up your hair. I have 
decided in favor of the latter condition, 
but simply because it is more becoming. Are 
you not sorry for me when I tell you I have 
been obliged to spend five of these precious 
years at Kue Dumont, number 89, Passy, 
France ? 


SOCIETY ^8 PROTMj^E. 3 

I was compelled to go to that very fashion- 
able pension so that I might enter society in 
America, and shine by contrast with the girls 
there, who, I hear, are accustomed to speaking 
French without an accent — except an 
American one — as they are to eating their 
dinner without vin ordinaire. If you 
speak French with an adorable accent you 
are bound to acquire the chic of a Parisienne. 
I am simply quoting a musty old marquis 
when I say that. I have a modest supply 
of accomplishments (that remark is original). 

The chief one is my singing. I have 
studied so hard over my voice, I have studied 
my style, so know I should attempt nothing 
but light music — such as comic-opera, but 
)have the good taste not to put myself on 
I the same musical plane with a cafe 
chantant. With my repertoire of songs I 
expect to sing my way into the life of some 
man with a large heart, I hope, and — a still 
larger pocketbook, for I am mercenary from 
the mass of golden curls on the crown of my 


4 


SOCIETY’S prot^:o^:e. 


head, down to the tips of my polished finger 
nails. You cannot blame me, ‘‘ Mrs. Diary.” 
If you had heard nothing but “genteel 
poverty” — what a word ! — poverty is never 
genteel — it is always repulsive— nothing but 
poverty all your life — ^you would be the 
same. My dear parents have been obliged 
to pinch themselves so as to give me some 
sort of an education. My precious mother 
has denied herself every pleasure so that I 
might go to school properly gowned, and my 
father went without tobacco for four whole 
months so as to save enough money to buy 
me a white dress for our school fete. They 
say it is so much harder, too, when you have 
not been accustomed to it ; at least mamma says 
so. I have often been told that my grand- 
father — papa’s father — was at one time an 
infiuential banker in Wall street. Being in- 
fused with the excitement of ’TO he speculated 
heavily, and on a Black Friday awoke not 
to find himself famous, but a ruined man. He 
died a few months after from the shock. About 


S0GIETT*8 PROTM^JE. 


5 


that time, papa (who had graduated from 
Harvard a couple of years before) became 
engaged to mamma, who was a Miss Carolyn 
of Baltimore. She must have married papa 
for himself alone, for a year after grand- 
papa’s death they were married in Trinity 
church, Hew York. Many of their friends 
still say they were the handsomest couple 
that ever walked down that aisle. Eighteen 
months after that event I had the impudence 
to be born. During papa’s college days he 
was considered clever at pen-and-ink work. 
After grandpapa’s failure he depended upon 
that for a living, contributing his drawings 
to the magazines. Then he attempted water 
color, and worked at that until he exhibited 
at the Academy of Design. Out of the 
proceeds of that picture we came to Paris 
and took a tiny apartment a few metres 
from the Seine. We were obliged to live 
from hand to mouth on the occasional — 
very occasional — sale of a picture. At twelve 
I welcomed any change, for I was rather 


6 SOCIETY^JS PROTJ^GJ^E. 

tired of posing for hours as an Italian 
peasant (with a tidy on my head for a cap) 
or as a cherub, with a heavenly smile on my 
face and most diabolic feelings in my 
heart. Besides, I was getting too large for 
our apartment, so when papa^ said he in- 
tended sending me to “ Madame Fierre’s 
establishment for young ladies” I went most 
willingly and smilingly. I remember 
mamma arranging the terms, which were 
enormous — ^at least so they seemed to me. 
Before leaving mamma told me I must 
make the best of my opportunities, as 
papa and she Would have to be very 
saving, so as to be able to keep me there. I 
realize now how much they must have sacrificed. 
I did make the most of my opportunities, 
for a year ago I finished with what I 
suppose you would call “honors.” Then I 
went back to my old life with papa and 
mamma. Our acquaintance was simply 
among papa’s fellow artists, and a few of 
my old school friends. I confess I flirted 


SOCIETY PROTMj^E. 


7 


with every unmarried man I met, and a few 
of the married ones, especially the poor 
men with artistic wives, who wore their 
clothes as if they were put together with 
mucilage instead of needle and thread. 

The men with such wives before them in- 
variably appreciate a jolly, trim looking girl. 
With the exception of a few offers of marriage 
from men more or less impecunious I had noth- 
ing to break the monotony of my life at home, 
except when I went to Toulon to visit Amie 
Neveaux, my school friend, and there I met 
the Marquis de Bouget, who fell in love with 
me, and came and made the most formal pro- 
posal of marriage to papa, while I stood behind 
his back making grimaces and shaking my fist 
at poor papa, who was dreadfully embarrassed — 
almost as much as the marquis’ fortune. But 
then the marquis was sixty, with a truly nasty 
temper, so he went back to Toulon without a 
fiancee. Such has been my life until last 
Thursday. On that eventful day we received 
word that papa’s Cleopatra.” had taken 


8 


SOCIETY'S PROT^:G^:E. 


“Honorable Mention” at the Salon. We 
immediately held a family council and we all 
agreed it was time I entered • society in my 
native city, where our family was known. 

Papa’s aunt, a maiden lady, had written 
repeatedly, and said when I was of an age to 
enter the “charmed circle” she would chap- 
erone me, and herald the debut of the only 
child of a struggling artist. A letter addressed 
to Miss Elizabeth Yan Antwerpen, 987 Gram- 
mercy Park, Hew York City, was sent, telling 
her I would sail in a week’s time for America. 
That week we spent in shop])ing, for we really 
could have the luxury of spending money after 
papa’s wonderful luck. Oh, the gowns and 
hats we got ! They are dreams. Horrid, pro- 
saic interruption, but the “ gong” has sounded 
for dinner, so I must go and put on one of 
those above-mentioned gcwns. There are one 
or two “ on board” that seem worthy of the 
trouble — it is a trouble, for I do a j[>as seul 
every time I go to my stateroom, for the ^hip 
rocks like an overgrown cradle, 


SOCIETY *8 protM^:e. 


9 


A day later! 

Sunday on shipboard, when every one but 
a blondined actress, an old maid, and a man 
that looks like Apollo — in a box-coat — have 
not succumbed to mal-de-mer. I have dis- 
covered that it is not particularly exciting — 
especially as the sole and only man takes no 
more notice of me than if I was the old maid 
and the actress combined. I have come to my 
stateroom to read. I shall not tell you what; 
It was a fascinating book, and having come to 
the word finis,” and even read the advertise- 
ments in the back of the book, I feel as if I 
should like to have a talk with you, “ Madame 
Diary.” I really am beginning to be fond of 
you ; perhaps it is because you are the only per- 
son that lets me talk as much as I please about 
myself. Then you never contradict. I am 
now going to tell you how we came here, 
for, of course, being a woman you have curi- 
psity. 

It is just four days since I said good-by to 
my parents, ^n4 took a Cook’s excursion by 


10 


SOGIETT'S PROTtG^E. 


the way of Calais and Dover. At Dover I got 
into a first-class carriage. The only occupant 
beside myself was a priest, who seemed absorbed 
in what I suppose was his breviary until a sudden 
stop of the train caused him to put his head 
out of the window and I saw it was “ Made- 
moiselle de Maupin” he was reading, in an 
ecclesiastical covering (probably the first time 
that young lady was ever in such a respecta- 
ble garb). 

Feeling that my fellow traveler was of this 
earth, earthy, I had begun to wish I had not 
put myself even in a railway carriage under 
the protection of the church. The jpretre^ 
however, did not seem inclined to notice me, so 
I continued to watch the landscape and count 
the sheep that were grazing on the neat-look- 
ing downs. Then I wondered if there was 
much soot on my face, and if I looked very 
dreadful after those four awful hours on the 
channel, if priests ever noticed when a girl had 
on a stunning tailor-made gown, if my life in 
Kew York would be very* exciting, if mamrn^t 


SOCIETY’S PROl^JOJ^E. 


11 


and papa missed me, if they would remember 
to give my poodle rice pudding for luncheon — 
in fact my thoughts were of a decidedly patch- 
work type. Then I turned my attention to 
the priest. I could safely do it, for he evi- 
dently did not have the remotest idea that in 
the same compartment with him was a real 
live female. It seemed to me the reverend 
father’s hair was not quite short enough for 
his calling. Somehow or other I fancied him 
in a frock-coat with a gardenia in his button- 
hole — it would have suited him better than his 
cassock. No doubt he was forty, but the deep 
lines around his eyes made him look older than 
that, perhaps. Possibly he had spent most of 
his life in teaching dirty-faced “ gamins” their 
com, spline., and — but here the priest put down 
his newspaper, and pulled out a silver cigar 
case, with a dancing girl done in enamel on one 
side^ I saw that as he" put it back into his 
pocket. He then took a match out to light his 
cigar, when he caught my eye. It evidently 
brought him to his senses, for he said in very 


12 


SOCIETY'S PROTM^IE. 


good English, with a French accent, “ I beg 
your pardon, does madame object to my smok- 
ing ? ” 

“ Not at all,” I replied smilingly, ‘‘if it is 
good tobacco.” 

“ It is American tobacco,” taking a puff with 
much enjoyment. “ Perhaps madame smokes 
herself ? ” 

I hardly knew whether to be offended or 
amused at the question — no doubt I did have 
so much soot on my face he mistook me for a 
chimney. I felt it would not do to let him see 
how I had taken the remark. I replied, “ As 
I am an American I only smoke the pipe of 
peace.” 

After that we chatted until we got to Can- 
terbury and my acquaintance got off to get me 
a glass of sherry and a biscuit. I noticed he 
looked sharply at every one that got off the 
train, and when he walked he stooped 
decidedly. I should not have expected it of a 
man that was so broad-shouldered. When he 
returned with my refreshments he handed me 


SOCIETY’S piiotM^:e, 


13 


a fragrant bunch of Parma violets — “They 
just matched your eyes,’’ he said. I wonder if 
they did ? When we got to Charing Cross he 
put me in a cab, after seeing my luggage 
through all right. As we shook hands and 
monjpreire wished me hon voyage^ he gave me 
his card saying, “If you have any trouble 
let me know.” His card, written in pencil, 
says “ Father Douchet, Westminister Club, Pica- 
dilly.” As I got on the American special at 
Euston station I looked around in hopes I 
might see some familiar face. Once in Liver- 
pool it was only a short drive to the “ tender.” 
In an hour’s time, utterly worn out, I called the 
stewardess for a passenger list and a cup of 
coffee, and then retired, oh, so tired. The 
passenger list has failed to show me one 
familiar name. They say there are not many 
people going over this time of the year. I see 
there is a certain Sir Gerald Cannon and 
“valet.” I shall keep my eyes open and 
bright for Sir Gerald. 

Yesterday morning I arose at ten o’clock 


14 


SOCIETY’S PROT^IQ^IE, 


and donned a natty-looking ulster and a pert 
little hat and tucked the violets I had tried to 
keep fresh for the sake of mon prefre into 
my buttonhole, and took my first breakfast on 
shipboard, which consisted of a piece of toast 
and a glass of milk, interlarded by numerous 
stares from my fellow passengers, who seem a 
respectable lot, excepting the couple of women 
who have made their appearance, and they 
look like frights. I have sat on the deck all 
day, except when slapping you on the face 
with my pen, Mrs. Diary, and wh 

September Vlih. 

I WAS interrupted delightfully in our one- 
sided conversation yesterday, and all through 
you “dere diry.” The ship gave a sudden 
lurch and away you “ sprawled” on the deck 
in a most unladylike manner. You were 
picked up by Sir Gerald Cannon, baronet — 
who carefully smoothed down your skirts — I 
mean your pages, and handed you back to 
me. “Allow me to return your book,” he 
said. 


SOCIETY'S PROTMj^E. 


15 


‘‘ Thank you, I was afraid the wind was 
going to deprive me of my confidanteP 

“ Will you not let me take its place for a 
little while % I am sure you must be tired of 
doing all the talking ; ’’ and without waiting 
for my reply he calmly seated himself in the 
steamer chair next to mine. 

So that was the beginning of the acquaint- 
ance that has ripened into a friendship in the 
last few days. Sir Gerald does not talk much 
about bimself, in fact I do most of the talking, 
but I have found out he is the eldest son, 
with two brothers, one in Africa, the other at 
Oxford. I do not think he cares very much 
for men’s society, because he is never with 
them. Perhaps it is because he does not play 
cards, although he seems to spend a good deal 
of his time in that horrid smoking-room, when 
he is not walking or reading or talking to me — 
and that occupies most of his time. 


16 


80CIETT^8 PROTM^IE. 


November 20th. 

We expect to arrive at quarantine at ten to- 
night, and that means we will be at our dock 
to-morrow when we awake. I shall be so 
glad to see Aunt Betty, but am so sorry the 
voyage is over. Sir Gerald is too. He says it 
has been such a pleasure to have known me. 
Just fancy a swell English baronet saying that 
to an insignificant little American girl ! 

987 Grammercy Park, Hew York City, ) 
November 31^^. [ 

The last evening “ on board” I spent on deck 
until eleven o’clock with Sir Gerald. We 
leaned over the ship’s railing and looked at 
the lights in the harbor that seemed like bits 
of diamond dust on a piece of black velvet. 
I wonder if every one says stupid things 
when they say good-by to one another ? Sir 
Gerald and I certainly did not talk Ji/reworJcs ; 
in fact we talked of everything that was not of 
the slightest interest to either of us. 

Aunt Betty was on the wharf next morning 


SOCIETY'S PROT^:G^E. 


17 


when we arrived. I almost cried, I was so 
glad to see her. I presented Sir Gerald to 
her immediately and told her how kind he 
had been to me, so she asked him to call 
upon us. It was delightful to get to Gram- 
mercy Park, everything looks so comfortable 
and home-like. For the first day I did noth- 
ing but rest in the library, but ever since then 
I have been on the “go,’’ and have now 
developed into what I suppose you would call 
“a full-fledged society girl.” Aunt Betty 
says the social success of a debutante depends 
upon her chajperone. 

The morning after I arrived I opened the 
newspaper on the breakfast table and in the 
column headed “ What our society people are 
doing” I saw my own name. It said that I 
had just arrived on the Teutonic after several 
years’ study abroad, where my parents still 
resided, that I was a petite blonde with a pink 
and white complexion and looked like a bit of 
Dresden china. Then followed a long list of 
accomplishments, a notice that I was to come 


18 


SOGIETT^S PBOT^OJ^E. 


out at a “ tea” at my aunt’s, and finished up 
with the startling bit of news that I was an 
heiress. I was laughing heartily when aunty 
came into the room. 

“ Aunt Betty, just read this and then look 
for the halo around my head,” I said gayly. 

“You innocent child, you don’t suppose a 
reporter wrote that, do you? That was written 
by me when you were fast asleep last even- 
ing.” I began to wonder if Aunt Betty often 
told stories like that. “ Besides it is all quite 
true,” she continued. “You are a very nice 
looking girl, I believe you sing very well, and 
as to the heiress part, I mean to leave you my 
money, if you behave yourself; by that I mean 
do not marry some impecunious clerk on 
twenty-five dollars a week and no family — 
who as soon as he married you would start one 
on his own account.” 

“ You are so good to me,” I answered, as I 
nearly hugged the very life out of her. “I 
fancy there is no fear of my doing anything 
very wicked. Don’t let us talk about that. 


SOGIETY^S PROTM^IE. 


19 


Tell me what you think of Gerald ? ” I said, as 
I nibbled a muffin. 

“ Of whom ? putting up her lorgnettes. 

“Of Sir Gerald, the Englishman I pre- 
sented,” and I tried to hide my face in my cup 
of chocolate. 

“ Beatrix, I can hardly judge of a man I 
have seen for a minute, surrounded by 
numerous trunks, with a glass in one eye and a 
glassy stare in the other, while he watched his 
valet struggle out of the clutches of a custom- 
house official. As you evidently know him 
well enough to call him by his first name, per- 
haps you will kindly tell me what you think of 
him.” 

“ I met him for the first time on the steamer, 
and he paid me a great deal of attention. I 
felt sorry for him, for he has no parents.” I 
must say Aunt Betty has not a very sympa- 
thetic manner. “He is in America for the 
first time, and although he knows no one 
here he evidently goes in very nice society 
abroad. Please pass me the butter.” 


20 


SOCIETY'S PEOTM^E. 


“Well, I suppose he has letters of introduc- 
tion to some one here. I shall see who knows 
him before I allow him to come here very 
often. Now, you have finished breakfast, go 
and rest while Annie unpacks your boxes,” aunt 
quietly remarks. 

That afternoon Sir Gerald called. He made 
a favorable impression on aunty, for she said, 
“ He has a very polished manner, and I do not 
think it is veneer.” I wonder if all the men 
in America are alike. The ones I have talked 
with are simply stupid, while the entertaining 
ones avoid me, for I have not met any of them 
as yet. Aunt Betty was in despair because I 
froze a man with one idea, when he made 
what I considered personal remarks about my 
eyes and hair. But I have become accustomed 
to all that sort of thing now, and allow the 
men to speak of my personal charms as if I 
were a horse for sale. And the way Aunt 
Betty talks of this man’s family, and that 
man’s money, makes me believe I ought to say, 
“Please take me; Pm a bargain, in perfect 


SOGIbJTY'8 PUOTJ^Q^IE. 


21 


condition, not shopworn or damaged in any 
way.” 

Decemher 29th. 

I HAVE shaken hands “ good-by ” with mon- 
otony. I am surely ga,y enough. It is cer- 
tainly one continual round of luncheons, 
matinees, teas, receptions, dinners, cotillions, 
and I enjoy every moment of it all. I like to 
have that nervous, pleasurable excitement as I 
get dressed for a dance ; the feeling that the 
gown I am going to put on is going to make 
me look well ; that the colors will bring out 
the clear look in my hair or the magenta in 
my cheeks will come to the surface. Then 
when we get to the dance I can hardly wait to 
throw off my wraps, as I hear the music, the 
duet of conversation and laughter, almost feel 
the breath of the flowers that floats from be- 
low to the dressing-rooms. I love to feel my- 
self crushed in by masses of women whose 
satins and chiffons brush my bare arms ; the 
lights from the chandeliers, the hot air, all 
seem to act upon me like a tonic. Once home 


22 


SOCIETY’S PnOTJ^OJ^E. 


again with my roses a withered mass of per- 
fume, my gown a lacy heap thrown on a chair 
to remind me that I am tired, and have danced 
too much. The next morning I like to go 
down to the breakfast table and see in the 
morning papers that “Miss Yan Antwerpen 
was as usual surrounded by a crowd of ad- 
mirers,” or “Miss Yan Antwerpen was the cen- 
ter of attraction in Mrs. De Pizen’s box at the 
Horse Show last evening, attired in light blue 
broadcloth that set off her blond beauty to per- 
fection.” 

I always clip these notices out and send 
them to papa and mamma. I suppose they 
can hardly realize the girl that used to flirt 
with impecunious artists in Paris is the 
same girl that has the jeunesse doree at her 
patent leather ties. 

Is it not stupid to tell you all this nonsense, 
Mrs. Diary? But I want you to be sure to 
understand just how silly and vain I am. 
I am going at four o’clock with Sir Gerald 
to drive in his new tandem, and that means 


SOCIETY’S protj^g^:e. 


23 


I must go and put on a covert coat and an 
English expression of countenance to go 
with it. 

February 1st. 

Can you tell a man in love, Madame 
Confidante? If you can I wish you would 
explain Sir Gerald’s symptoms. If he 
comes into a room eagerly looking around 
until his eyes rest upon you and then 
breathes a sigh of relief, if he looks every 
moment he possibly can at your correct 
coiffure or irreproachable fit of your gown, 
or anything about you except in your eyes — 
for men who seem to be able to look St. 
Peter himself in the face (if they got the 
chance), will avoid a woman’s eyes as if 
they were too bright or precious to be en- 
countered by his humble gaze — very nice of 
them to think that ! Then if he looks as if 
he could chew some man with a relish if his 
rival hands you a cup of bouillon, or some- 
thing equally inoffensive, or when he puts 
on your wrap inquires if you are warm 


24 


SOCIETY^d 


enough, in the same tone he would adopt 
if you contemplated a visit to the polar 
regions; after showing all these symptoms, 
do you think he is in love ? I want to know be- 
cause that is the way Gerald acts. I do not 
think it is exactly a malignant case, but I 
know it is catching. My limited experience 
with other men makes me inclined to think 
that Gerald is my own personal property. 
But the fact that he is able to talk interest- 
ingly to me and is not the slightest atom 
distrait rather beggars my theory. Be- 
cause men in love are always so stupid, and 
that is a condition I can never imagine 
Gerald will fill. 

' February Uh. 

A VERY important affair happened last 
evening — now don’t try and guess, because 
that would spoil all the fun. Aunt Betty, 
Gerald and I went to the last Patriarch ball, 
and as Barney Wells and I sat in a cozy 
corner sheltered by palms, flirting as fast 
as our tongues and eyes were capable of, 


SOCIETT'8 PUOTM^IE, 


25 


just as Barney took a rose from my bouquet 
Gerald interrupted us by saying, “Miss Yan 
Antwerpen, your aunt has decided to indulge 
in a severe headache, although I have tried 
to persuade her it is time wasted. I am now 
going to take her home, and will return 
for you in an hour if you will be ready by 
that time.” 

“ Yes, but if aunty is ill, I must go to 
her.” 

“ But she said particularly she wished you 
to remain.” 

Then, as they say in novels, “he disap- 
peared,” just as if people were magicians. 
He came for me in what seemed five minutes. 
As I entered the carriage I felt “ something 
was coming,” so I snuggled down into the 
fur collar of my evening wrap — and waited. 
His high hat, his handsome profile, and then 
his overcoat collar turned up around his ears 
all seemed silhouetted against the electric lights 
of the city. He was nice and polite, so he did 
not keep me waiting long. 


26 


SOCIETY'S prot:^o^e. 


^‘Beatrix!” When a man takes liberties 
with your front name, be prepared — Beatrix, 
1 want to tell you something, will you 
listen ? I nodded. “ I want to tell you, 

dear, that you have a man’s big heart 
squeezed tight in that tiny fist of yours. You 
must tell me right here what you are going 
to do with it ? ” and he took my “ fist” and 
kissed it, where the flesh showed in the open- 
ing of the glove. I kept my head turned and 
wondered why it was I did not have cold 
creeps up- and down my back or other sensa- 
tions I have always understood all well 
regulated girls had when the man they 
love — and of course I love Gerald — tells them 
they are an earthly edition of an angel. “ Trix, 
will you not look at me ? ” Then he turned 
my head with his hands. “ Tell me what you 
are going to do, little girl? Look me in the 
eyes; yes, you look honest, now answer me. 
Are you going to steal a man’s heart and not 
give him one in exchange ? ” 

I looked right at the boutonniere in Gerald’s 


SOCIETY'S PROTJ^QM. 


27 


coat and said “ If you want mine in exchange 
you may have it. I only wish I had another 
so as to give you good measure.” 

Then Gerald — well, Gerald kissed me and 
the carriage seemed to swim around, and the 
electric lights seemed to do the “two step.” 
When we became rational Gerald said he 
would have to return to England shortly. 
So he wants to be married right off. He is 
coming to speak to aunty this morning and 
as soon as he gets her consent will cable for 
papa’s. 

Fel)Tuary ^th. 

I AM as happy as the proverbial lark. Aunt 
Betty is delighted and I suppose papa is, only 
he evidently could not cable his joy at forty 
cents a word. Sometimes I try to wonder if I 
should care for Gerald just as much if he was 
shaved of his title, and just a plain everyday 
mortal, instead of “ the catch of the season.” 
I hope I would, but I am a tiny bit ambitious 
and I do want to see a name below my own 
on the wedding invitation that will make 


28 


SOCIETY'S PR0T^:0^:E. 


every one exclaim, “ Is she really going to 
marry him ? But then distinguished men are 
generally caught by some chit of a girl.” 

Of course I shall not break my heart, if 
they do not make that last remark. I want 
to marry a man posterity will point proudly 
out and say, “ That man was my great-great- 
grandfather.” That is looking a great way 
ahead, but I do want my grandchildren to 
have a neat pedigree. Take care, Mrs. Diary, 
perhaps one day the foolish words which 
have marred your papery beauty will be 
gazed upon with as much reverence as if you 
were a second edition of the commandments. 
To-night I am to sing some French songs at 
the Berkley Lyceum, for one of the charities 
of which aunty is patroness. 


February 19^A. 

^ Oh, dear ! why do ^ things roll themselves 
into such a tangle. Two weeks ago to-day I 
was so happy, and now something dreadful 
has happened, and on my birthday too. Even 


SOCIETY'S PBOTMj^E, 


29 


the fact that I have such beautiful presents from 
every one and such a swell toilet set of old 
ivory from Gerald will not comfort me. Aunt 
Betty had been calling — of course that means 
gossiping — ^with some old cat of a woman, 
who told her something about Gerald. 

He had been introduced into the Union 
Club by Judge Bancroft and made an honor- 
ary member during his stay in Hew York. It 
appears he was playing cards with one of the 
members when some one accused him of 
cheating. It is understood that Barney Wells 
made the accusation. I have always known 
be was jealous of Gerald, and I suppose he 
fancies this affair will break off the engage- 
ment. I have tried to convince aunty that 
Gerald never touches a card. She is so 
excited she will not listen to reason, and says 
I should not have engaged myself to a for- 
eigner, whom we know nothing of except 
that his name is in Burke’s Peerage, and he 
had letters to lots of good people here. This 
afternoon’s papers have given the case such 


30 


SOCIETY’S PROT^G^JE. 


disagreeable prominence. One of them said 
something about “ A cannon being fired from 
a club.” The very worst joke I ever heard. 
Another one informs the public that “ Once 
more an heiress was to be sacrificed to the 
British lion,” and then hinted at an ugly story 
that was going the rounds of the club apropos 
of an Englishman and a game of cards, then 
finished up by wishing “ the lion” more luck 
at the game of love. 

When Gerald called this afternoon I met 
him with a decidedly ten-degrees-below-zero 
manner and asked him to explain. Gerald 
said some one who had a grudge against him 
had circulated the story, and that I ought to 
know a club of that sort did not allow 
gambling. When aunty came in the drawing- 
room she acted very, very rude, and in fact 
would give Gerald no opportunity to explain 
away this wretched affair. She told Gerald 
she wished my engagement broken, and she 
thought she had something to say about it as 
she intended leaving me all her money. Then 


SOCIETY *8 PROTM^E. 


31 


she left the room. But then what can you 
expect of an old maid whose knowledge of 
men is derived from what others say of their 
husbands ? 

After she had gone Gerald said his lawyers 
had cabled him to return to England, and he 
wants me to be married secretly to him, 
and return with him, as he will not leave 
America without me. I am so excited and 
nervous, I fly from one room to another try- 
ing to collect my senses. I hope I am doing 
what is right. I have tried to read my prayer 
book and think of what papa and mamma 
would advise me to do. I love Gerald and I 
know he would not ask me to do anything 
that was wrong, so I intend to marry him. 
Aunt Betty does not care for me or she would 
not have acted so cruelly I 


Fehruary 28^4. 

We are to be married to-day and sail on 
Wednesday’s steamer for Liverpool. It is 
going to be so easy to get off. I have told 


32 


SOCIETY *8 PR0T^:0^)E. 


the expressman to call for my trunks at three 
o’clock this afternoon. Aunt Betty will then 
be off at a meeting of the “ Fresh Air Fund.” 
Then I shall put on an ulster and a heavy 
veil, as if I were going for a walk. I have 
arranged to meet Gerald at the corner of 
Twenty -ninth street and Madison avenue in a 
cab. We will then drive off and be married. 
A queer wedding for a girl who has always 
dreamed of white satin gowns, bridesmaids 
and wedding presents. But what does all 
that sort of thing amount to when Gerald is 
in the balance ? 

Aunty and I have not mentioned Gerald’s 
name. I think she fancies I am making up my 
mind to give him his conge. That she does 
not suspect the truth I know. The thought 
that I am deceiving her has never entered her 
dear old gray head. Dear aunty, I feel ter- 
ribly at leaving you ; you have been so kind to 
me. I know I am acting like a criminal 
toward you. I have written her this letter 
and told Jennie to give it to her when she 
returns. 


S0GIETT*8 FROTMM. 


33 


My darling, precious aunt: Do not think 
your niece a wicked, headstrong girl, for I am 
going to marry Gerald and go to England 
with him. I love him with all my heart, 
and, aunty dear, I could not be happy without 
him. As to the card affair, if you knew 
Gerald as well as I do you would not believe 
it for an instant. Do not think I do not 
appreciate your kindness to me. I am not 
ungrateful. As long as God spares me I will 
remember it. Try and forgive me, and, if you 
will, come and see us off on the Umbria to- 
morrow. With a heart full of love. 

Your Trix. 

P. S. — I have written to papa. 

Oh, dear diary, I cannot write any more. 
The tears blind me. My darling mother and 
father, will you forgive me ? In a few short 
hours I shall not be your little girl any 
more but some one’s wife. Do you under- 
stand? Wife! 


The expressmen have come for my luggage, 
so I tell them to take it to the Buckingham, 
as we are to stay there until the steamer sails. 
I am now going to meet Gerald ! Wish me 


34 


80C1ETT*8 PR0TM^:E. 


years of happiness, Madame Diary, for this is 
my wedding day. 

Hotel BuehingJiam^ l\p, m. 

Did you ever hear of a bride being left alone 
on her wedding night, Madame Confidante? 
My husband has been obliged to leave me for 
some hours. These hours are to be devoted to 
you. 

When Gerald met me in the cab we drove 
to some alderman to be married. I wanted a 
clergyman, but Gerald said one of the “city 
fathers” would tie the knot just as secure. So 
we went to some man’s office in ISTassau street. 
All during the ceremony I looked around the 
office, noticing the dust on everything, the 
samples of merchandise lying around, and a 
handful of red-hot coals lying in a poor little 
pinched-up grate. When we were pronounced 
man and wife my attention seemed wholly ab- 
sorbed in a patriotic picture of “Washington 
Crossing the Delaware,” done in impossible 
colors, which hung above the alderman’s head. 


SOCIETY'S peotM:^e. 


35 


After he had wished us joy in an effusive man- 
ner, a clerk in a very loud suit of store clothes, 
a tie with the ends tucked in the shirt, and an 
immense diamond ring which he flourished as 
he signed the marriage certificate as a witness, 
had the impudence to congratulate Gerald. 
As we again got into the carriage and Gerald 
said “ The Buckingham,” to the driver, T real- 
ized then for the first time that I was actually 
married. Then I felt like crying. Gerald no- 
ticed it for he said, “ What is the trouble. Lady 
Beatrix ? ” That sounded so funny. “ Did the 
ceremony please you ? ” 

“ Gerald, it was done so quickly, it seemed 
vulgar, not solemn you know.” 

“ The quicker the better, was evidently the 
alderman’s motto,” and Gerald leaned back in 
the corner as if he was thoroughly tired out. 
I wish he had taken hold of my hand — or 
something — to show he appreciated the fact he 
had a bride. You might have imagined we 
had been married for twenty years, we were 
so utterly prosaic. It seems too odd to see 


36 


SOCIETY'S PROTM^IE. 


“ Sir Gerald Cannon and Wife,” on the hotel 
register. Somehow I do not like the looks of 
that, now I am simply Sir Gerald’s wife. In 
marrjnng a distinguished man I have become 
extinguished. Gerald promised to be back in 
time to dine. I have partly unpacked a trunk, 
put on a pretty pink negligee, and the diamond 
star aunty gave me in my hair, with the hope 
I would look “ bridey.” I have tried to read, 
to sleep, but I am so nervous, so different from 
myself. I would ask the chambermaid to 
come in and talk to me, but I am almost 
ashamed to. I shall lie down until Gerald 
comes. 

S. S. Umbria, March Mh. 

Once more we are on the sea. You are be- 
coming quite a traveler, Madame Diary. 
What a different person confides in you now 
from the girl that made her first trip with you. 
I was then an innocent girl, with no thought 
except for the poetry of life. ITow I know the 
prose, made up of short, unlovely sentences. 
Eather an odd remark for a bride on her 


SOCIETY'S PROTM^K 


37 


honeymoon. My wedding night was spent 
alone until one o’clock. Tired out with wait- 
ing for Gerald, I threw myself on the bed and 
soon fell fast asleep. I was awakened by the 
gas flaring up, awoke to see Gerald leaning 
over me. He explained that some business he 
wanted to attend to before he left America 
had detained him, so I tried not to let him see 
how badly I felt. 

“ What ? Tears on your cheeks. Surely you 
have not been silly enough to cry, just because 
I have left you for a few hours ? ” 

“ Gerald, cannot you understand that I would 
be lonely, alone in this great hotel. Besides, I 
should think you would want to be with your 
wife of only a few hours,” and I held up my 
lips to be kissed. 

“ Beatrix, let us understand one another so 
we may put an end to all this sentimental 
nonsense. Women are not courageous when 
the truth is unpleasant. I know you married 
me for my title, and you knew I was pretty 
hard-pressed for money, so nothing was more 


38 


SOCIETY'S pbotj^g:^e. 


natural than we should marry. We will con- 
sider this from a purely business standpoint. 
If your aunt shows any disposition to change 
her will because we have chosen to be married 
at our own convenience, I trust to your 
woman’s wit to show her it would be a very 
bad thing for her niece. You understand ? ” 
Those are the words I heard my husband 
say after having been married but a few hours. 
I sat on the edge of the bed trying to realize 
what those cruel, terrible words meant. 
Words that told me the man I had married 
had no love for me. I was aroused from my 
almost senseless stupor by Gerald. 

“ Come, Trix, do not stare at me as if I had 
told you something you had never heard be- 
fore. The truth does sound rather harsh, now 
that it is robbed of the sentiment we both tried 
to infuse into it. Come, you look tired, you 
are almost fast asleep now.” 

Sleep — the word was a mockery. 

“ Gerald, really I am not fatigued. Please 
let me rest here a little while.” 


SOCIETY'S FROTMM, 


39 


I must think — think What should I do? 

This was my husband. The man I had loved. 
Could I go back to Aunty Betty or would the 
law compel me to live with him ? I tried to 
picture him to myself as he appeared only that 
morning, a gay, debonair, handsome lover, of 
whom any girl might have been proud. 

“ Oh, Gerald,” I moaned, “ I love you, my 
darling, 1 love you; why did you not take my 
life before you took away my faith in you ? ” 
Then fearful he had heard me, I softly crept to 
the bedroom door. No, I could hear him mov- 
ing about. “ Gerald, tell me you did not mean 
those unkind words and I ” 

That is all I remember. I must have fainted, 
for I awoke to find myself on the couch, with 
a chambermaid holding some salts to my nose. 

“ Thank you, I am all right. Where is my 
husband ? ” 

“ Here I am, Trix ; do you want me ? ” coming 
from the other room. “ I told you you were 
all tired out. I found you all in a heap of white 
lace and golden hair. I took the bundle up and 


40 


SOCIETY'S PBOtM^IE. 


found — my wife. Kather a surprise, I assure 
you. You may go’’ — to the maid — “ How are 
you, pretty Larky ? ” 

“My head hurts me” — but could he not 
see that no physical pain could ever equal the 
mental one I was enduring ? “ I was stupid to 

disturb you. Please leave me and go to sleep. 
I shall stay here. ” 

“ Good-night, Trix. I hope you will be all 
right in the morning. It is almost that now.” 

Yes, he was gone. What would they think 
in the hotel if I was to creep out at this time of 
night ? Perhaps I should be taken for a thief. 
Perhaps — then the pink ribbons I had been 
pulling through my fingers reminded me I was 
only in a negligee. How childish I was to be 
sure. If Gerald would come back, take me in 
his arms, and I should tell him that I loved him 
— would it make any difference to him? Ho, he 
had laughed at me because I had tried “ to in- 
fuse some sentiment' into the affair.” I should 
try and live with love shut out of my heart. 
So, heart and eyelids heavy, Nature demanded 
a toll, and I forgot, for a few hours. 


SOCIETY’S PMOT^O^E. 


41 


Aunt Betty came to see us off. As she came 
on the gang-plank I hurried to meet her with a 
smiling face. “ Aunty, darling, have you for- 
given your naughty niece ? ” feeling an infinite 
tenderness as I looked at her dear old face, 
which seemed careworn since I had left her. 

‘‘ Well, you do look naughty with those great 
rings under your eyes. Trixy, why did you 
deceive me so. I am not a narrow-minded 
woman — even if I am an old maid. I know 
what a romance in a young girl’s heart means. 
I was wise enough to know that opposition 
would only strengthen it, so I said nothing to 
you, having faith in your honor. You look 
as if you were ashamed. You have been a 
foolish girl and may live to repent your rash- 
ness ! ” Oh, God, if she only knew how I had 
repented. “ Beatrix, you will see your father 
and mother. I hope you will be perfectly 
frank with them. Where is Gerald ? ” 

“ Down in the stateroom, I suppose,” I an- 
swered wearily. 

She noticed the tone for she said, quickly, 


42 


SOCIETY’S PBOT^O^m. 


“ Tired of him already ? I should not be sur- 
prised. Mce talk your marriage will make, and 
Gerald leaving America during the scandal of 
that card affair.” 

“ I had forgotten that — with so much else.” 

“ Forgotten it ! Beatrix, you are surely insane. 
Here,” handing me an envelope, “ is a wedding 
present. I do not suppose you have any money. 
Kemember, I want you to use it yourself, child. 
There goes the gong to go ashore. I cannot 
wait to say good-by to your husband. Good- 
by m}^ darling, God bless you — and take care 
of you ; ” and clasping me in her arms she 
covered my wet face with her kisses. 

As we slipped out of the dock and each 
minute put another yard of water between the 
vessel and the dear old lady who had loved me 
as a daughter, my eyes strained to get a 
glimpse of her face — now it was all a dim blur. 
I turned and went below to Gerald. Yes, I 
had played with destiny, so I must abide by 
its decree when it played with me. 

Gerald was superintending a steward who 


SOCIETY PROTMJ^E. 


43 


was unpacking his valises. As the man left I 
handed Aunt Betty’s envelope to Gerald. 

“ Here is some money Aunt Betty gave me. 
Take it, for it is part of the money I paid for 
your title,” I said sarcastically. 

“ By Jove, did she come to see us off ? Well, 
that is jolly of the old girl. It is a draft 
on Brown, Shipp & Co. for £500. It comes 
in deucedly convenient. The money I paid 
for our tickets has ‘ wiped me ’ out. I had 
supposed we should have to ‘ recoup ’ on the 
steamer.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” I gasped. “ We 
make money ? ” 

‘‘ My dear child, how do you suppose I live ? 
Do you fancy a heavily mortgaged estate in 
Hertfordshire will give a man with expensive 
tastes a sufficient income ? I get just £1,000 
a year from my bankers, which keeps me 
in necessities, and I am obliged to rely on 
my wits to keep me in luxuries. With yours 
added to them, we ought to make a very respect- 
able living 1 ” 


44 


SOCIETY’S PROT^JO^IE. 


It struck me in a flash Gerald had not onl}r 
married me for Aunt Betty’s money, but to 
have an accomplice — in what, Heaven only 
knows ! 

“ Gerald, why not live quietly in the country 
on your income ? We might be very happy,” 
wistfully. 

“ I doubt it,” shortly. 

“ Tell me, have you a right to your title of 
Baronet ? ” 

“Certainly, your part of the bargain is 
secure. You saw my family in the Peerage.” 

“ At least he was not a thorough adventurer,” 
I commented. “ You do not expect me to help 
you in these — these ” 

“ Affairs of honor ? ” he smilingly answered. 
“ Yes, most decidedly. I have married a pretty, 
attractive girl, and I intend to make use of 
her,” dictatorially. 

“ As a decoy ? ” I asked quickly. 

“Perhaps! Cherie, you are bright for a 
society girl. With proper training you would 
become a very fascinating woman. A clever 


SOCIETY'S PROTJ^Q^JE. 


45 


woman should be an adventuress. Let her 
make the most of her talents. If she can get 
money out of Society let her do it. Only let 
her smile while she is robbing Society, and 
Society will smile back, unconscious of the 
theft.” After this questionable piece of advice 
he sauntered on deck to smoke and left me to 
digest this last piece of philosophy. 

March 6th. 

The seconds limp, the minutes drag, the 
hours stand still. Is my whole life to be like 
this? I have tried to be interested in my 
fellow passengers, to get my thoughts away 
from myself, to forget my very identity. Gerald 
leaves me alone, for which I am thankful. 
We keep up a semblance of affection to pre- 
vent gossip. As we walked the deck this 
morning he asked : “ What is the matter with 
you, Trix? You used to be such a merry 
little girl before we were married. Do the 
bonds weigh so heavily that you cannot ever 
give me a smile ? ” 


46 


SOCIETY ^8 PROTJ^G^JE. 


“Oh, no, it is not that. You forget in 
those days you were a devoted lover — and 
now ” 

“ Stop, do not finish the sentence. I know 
you are going to give me a far worse character 
than I deserve. But tell me, do you not think 
I made love to you in a truly artistic fashion'? 
I felt all along you must think me no end of a 
fool to attempt to say pretty speeches. Of 
course, I knew you saw through them, in just 
the same manner I saw through your ‘ ruse,’ 
but I saw you wanted to keep up the skeleton 
of a love affair, so I helped you prop it up, to 
the best of my ability. Come, let us go down 
to luncheon.” 

Will he never suspect the love I have for 
him ? A love that is eating my very heart out. 

Our vis-d-vis at the table are a couple from 
Chicago. The wife is a stout, motherly look- 
ing woman of thirty, with an appendage in 
the shape of a husband of sixty, whom she 
treats as if he was sixteen. She informed us 
they answered to the euphonious name of Mr. 


SOCIBTT'S PR0TM^!E. 


47 


and Mrs. Jonathan Rubber, “and Jobnney’’ 
(fancy calling a Christian man by such a heath- 
enish name) “ had made all his money in tin.” 
The/ are coming abroad to “ see things,” was 
her definite description of their plan of travel. 
They are rather amusing and wonderfully 
interested in “ Sir Gerald Cannon and wife.” 

March Uh. 

What is the use of my going around with a 
face as long as a Methodist sermon simply 
because I have made 2^ faux jpas. I am only 
nineteen. Why should I act as if my life was 
at an end and take no interest in anything or 
anybody — but Gerald ? I am married to an 
Englishman of good birth. When we get 
among his friends, I shall try and live up — or 
down — to my new position. Perhaps Gerald 
will learn to love me — in time. We will go 
into society in London. I am bright and — 
an enemy or two have acknowledged — very 
pretty. I shall succeed! I may find happi- 
ness in my power, for power I shall have. 


48 


SOCIETY* 8 PnOTtaM. 


Instead of letting dainty Cupid snuggle in my 
breast, we will thrust him shivering out into 
the cold, and go and pay our devoirs to Monsieur 

Ambition. W e make that virtue masculine 
for it seems to be borne in men, and acquired 
by women through stress of circumstances. 
So ring up the curtain on a new act, “ Mistress 
Diary,” for the “ leading lady ” now has a 
dollar sign where her heart once held sway. 
She has chosen her creed ! Mammon is 
Kex! 

I am hysterical, morbid, blue — something. I 
shall go and talk “traveling as an experi- 
ment ” with Mrs. Hubber. Her conversation 
has the influence of a narcotic. 

Yictoeia Hotel, London, April ^nd. 

London atmosphere has the same effect 
upon me as a train that rushes from brilliant 
sunshine into a gloomy terminus station. 
That sudden plunge into partial darkness 
never seems to effuse its impression as long as 
I remain in the city. We have been here 


SOCIETY ^8 PROT^:G^:E, 


49 


some three \^eeks, invigorated by the stimu- 
lating presence of Mr. and Mrs. Hubber, 
whose devotion to us would be delightful — if 
it was not a bore. We have been of some use 
to them as we have taken them sight seeing, 
and I have won Mrs. Hubber’s undying grati- 
tude — so she assures me — by having directed 
her to the London shops. 

Gerald devotes his time to certain business 
projects that keep him away most of the day 
— the rest of the time is spent with “ Johnney,” 
and as that individual spends his tin dollars” 
as if he owned a small-sized portion of the 
mint, I understand the fascination he has for 
my husband. My husband^ yes by the laws of 
New York state, that is all. Try as hard as I 
may I cannot crush down the love I have for him. 
I feel at times as if I must throw myself at his 
feet, imploring him to show me in some way 
that I am dear to him. But the days go by 
and I do not attempt anything so dramatic — 
perhaps it is as well for my happiness that I 
do not, for he would only laugh at me. We 


50 


SOCIETY’S FROTMtE. 


get along as well as most married people — I 
fancy. 

Gerald with one exception has never asked 
me to do anything that I should consider de- 
rogatory to myself. Perhaps the resistance with 
which I refused to comply with his request has 
proved to him I am not quite a child. I found 
on our arrival here letters from my parents, not 
filled with reproaches, but with heart hrealcB. 
Aunt Betty wrote that our elopement is the one 
topic of conversation in society, and it brought 
the story of the cards to a boiling point. I 
have tried -to forget the affair and have never 
spoken of it to Gerald — perhaps I am afraid ! 

April 15th. 

OuE lives are made up of one continuous 
string of incidents. Perhaps that is why the 
most trivial incident justifies the importance 1 
give it. Last evening after dinner as I came 
from the cheerless drawing-room, where I had 
been talking to Mrs. Hubber, I went to our 
apartment to find Gerald. He had thrown 


SOCIETY *8 PBOTM^E. 


51 


himself on the conch and was fast asleep. I 
crept softly and knelt beside him, and covered 
his face with my kisses. I took one of his 
hands and held it against my face, trying to 
imagine he was caressing me. I grew bolder 
and tried to slip my arm under his head, but 
my movement awoke him. Quickly 1 rose to 
my feet. 

“ Hello, Trix, is that you ? ” with a yawn. 
“ You have disturbed my dreams. What’s the 
trouble ? ” 

“Come, lazy boy, have you forgotten the 
Hubbers have seats for Irving ? ” 

“ Oh, what a bore. Still we we must go. I 
am glad you are civil to the Hubbers, Trix, 
because they may be of use to us. By the 
way, I want you to ask them to our rooms to- 
morrow evening. We will have a game of 
cards. I must have some money ! ” he said, 
while fixing an orchid in his buttonhole. 

“But Gerald” — turning from the glass 
where I was pinning on my hat — “ you said you 
never played cards.” The peculiar expression 


52 


SOCIETY'S protM:^e. 


on his face made me ask quickly: “ Tell me, was 
there any truth in the card story at the Union 
Club? I asked you the question before we 
were married. 1 believe your sense of veracity 
has undergone a change since then. You can 
afford to be honest now.” 

“Nonsense! A pretty woman is never a 
bore until she asks disagreeable questions. 
Come, are you ready ? ” 

“ Gerald, you shall not put me off like that. 
Tell me the truth.” 

“Perhaps you would not recognize it if I 
did,” he said lightly. 

“Yery well, I see you do not intend to 
answer my question. I will invite Mr. and 
Mrs. Hubber, if it is your wish, but remember 
jow.play at cards, not cheat at the game. If I 
see anything peculiar I shall tell Mr. Hubber,” 
defiantly. 

“Beatrix, you talk like a child. Come, they 
must be waiting for us.” 


80GIBTT*8 PEOTtoM. 


63 


Ajpril l^th. 

Gerald has gone to his banker’s to get a 
draft cashed, so I intend to spend just a second 
with you, dear gossip. The fact that my 
husband has gone for money indicates no 
doubt that it will be gambled away with Mr. 
Hubber, whom I am beginning to detest. A 
woman may think it interesting to hear from 
the man she loves that she has sunburnt hair, 
and eyes like captured bits of blue sky, but 
when you listen to that from a man that is 
three times your age, it seems like imper- 
tinence and is somewhat fulsome. Thus my 
evening was divided last night in listening to 
that sort of thing from Mr. Hubber and watch- 
ing the majority of English women who wore 
garnet velvet gowns, and carried crimson fans, 
and made every pair of good American eyes 
ache. The play is not, as it is in Hew York, a 
secondary consideration. Londoners pay their 
money and go to the theater for the purpose 
of getting something for their shillings. That 
accounts for the hearty way they laugh when 


64 


SOCIETT^S PBOTM^E. 


they think they have heard a witticism or rec- 
ognized a joke. 

Speaking to Gerald this morning of Mr. 
Hubher’s distasteful attentions, I said, “I 
assure you if he attempts anything of the sort 
this evening, I shall have nothing more to do 
with either of them.” 

“You should encourage him — if there is 
money in it,” was the calm rejoinder. 

“ Thank you,” I retorted. “ You evidently 
think it time you received a dividend on your 
speculation. As Aunt Betty still seems in 
good health I am again reminded I am not a 
good investment.” 

“Trix, that remark was neither witty nor 
cutting. I suppose you fancy you have re- 
duced me to the thickness of tissue paper. In 
children we call that sort of thing pertness. 
When they become women we are more con- 
siderate and say it is ‘ repartee.’ It’s the same 
thing. ]N"ow you speak of it, I think it is un- 
civil of the old lady not to shuffle off her con- 
gress gaiters — I suppose she wears them — and 


SOCIETY*S PEOT^OM. 


55 


let me see if I cannot squeeze my feet into her 
shoes. That £500 she gave us has almost 
gone ! Kemeinber you do not try your Iceland 
manner on Mr. Hubber.” There was an ex 
pression in his eyes I had never seen before. 


My life in London is so different from what 
I expected, I cannot quite understand it.’ 
one calls with the exception of an occasional 
man that my husband does not present to me. 
His brothers are still abroad. It seems odd 
they have never even written me a note wel- 
coming their new sister. If I might only join my 
parents in Paris ! They write for me to come, 
although I have not even hinted at my unhap- 
piness to them. I gave them sufficient pain in 
marrying as I did without adding any more. 

In speaking to Gerald this morning in regard 
to a trip to Paris, he made me the very edify- 
ing remark, “ What ! leave London when I 
have succeeded in getting hold of a man that 
is losing money in my direction? We will 


56 


SOGIETY'B PROTMJ^E. 


leave when Mr. Jonathan Hubber of Chicago 
has just enough money to pay for his return 
ticket to the ‘ land of the brave ! ’ ” 

“ Is it not possible for you to lose ? ” 

“ Certainly, Cherie, I will lose — to-night.” 

“ And after that ” 

“ I win.” 

I shall watch Gerald when he plays to-night. 
The poker party was a success — financially. 
Socially a dismal failure. Gerald has Mr. 
Hubber’s check for £1,200 and I have Mrs. 
Hubber’s enmity. The first part of the even- 
ing we spent at the “Haymarket.” During 
the last act I saw Gerald motion to some men 
who sat in the box almost directly opposite us. 
As they entered they were presented as 
Colonel Alcott, Lord Dolly — the last part of 
his name was indistinct and I was not suffi- 
ciently interested to ask for information, and 
an inoffensive little fellow, by name St. John, 
who looked as if he was trying to cut away 
from the apron strings of his Alma Mater. I 
heard after he was still at Oxford. 


SOCIETY'S FROT^iaM. 


57 


There was an American actress in the cast 
that interested the men. Lord Dolly poked a 
piece of glass in his eye, seemed to gather him- 
self up with a jerk and demanded: “Lady 
Cannon, what do you think of your country- 
woman^ Her costume for instance ? ” 

“ Her acting is clever, let us waive the sub- 
ject of her gown ” — with dignity. 

“ Yes, by jove, it is breezy, not much to speak 
of,” and he laughed at his abominable joke. 

I tried to further annihilate him by saying : 
“ Evidently your spelling is at fault.” 

Turning to Gerald 1 made the request to go 
home. The men were talking in loud tones 
and we were attracting too much attention. 

“ Come back to the ‘ Yictoria ’ with us, Hub- 
ber, and I will initiate you into the mysteries of 
some American mixed drinks. I say, Hubber, 
give them one of your ‘Weeper’s joy’ with a 
rarebit,” Gerald suggested, and thus we were a 
party of seven instead of four. 

As I expected, Gerald proposed poker. I 
objected to their playing for money in our 


68 


SOCIETY PBOTMM. 


rooms. Naturally Mrs. Hubber thought it 
the clever piece of acting of an adventuress. 
Of course that is what I shall be in the end. 

I shall give in some time from sheer weari- 
ness. In spite of the fact that Mr. Hub- 
ber’s patience was inexhaustible in regard 
to mixing “ cock-tails,” I noticed that he and 
Mr. St. John were the only ones that indulged 
to any extent. The first hour, Gerald and Col.*, 
Alcott were ahead. Gerald took up a handful 
of sovereigns and tossed them into my lap. 

“ There is some money, Trixy, to buy bon 
bons !” and he laughed as lightly as if it was a 
daily occurrence to give me such a sum to 
spend on trifles. 

At three o’clock Mrs. Hubber was fast asleep 
in an armchair. It was hard work playing 
guardian angel ! Col. Alcott and Gerald had 
been steady losers, after the first hour. 
Lord Dolly was a trifle ahead, but Mr. Hubber 
and Mr. St. John had persistent luck. Lord 
Dolly proposed a “ Jack-pot ” for a finish. Mr. 
Hubber opened it. Col. Alcott stayed out. 


S0GIETT*8 PBOT^:O^E. 


59 


Gerald drew one card ; St. John did not make 
a discard. Mr. Hubber bet ten so vs. St. John 
raised, Gerald raised ten, Lord Dolly five, and 
down they went again. Mr. Hubber bet the 
limit. St. John raised, Gerald went him ten 
better and Lord Dolly dropped out. We three 
that were looking on were breathless. St. 
John’s face was ashy; he had bitten his lip 
until it bled. Mr. Hubber had a look of dog- 
ged determination on his face. Four times they 
had gone around with a raise to the limit each 
time. The fifth round St. John dropped out. 
Mr. Hubber was frightfully excited. The hand 
that held his cards shook like an aspen leaf. 
Gerald was absolutely calm. The sixth round 
Mr. Hubber “ called ” him, with a short laugh. 
Gerald then drew down his hand. He held a 
straight flush. Mr. Hubber held an ace full. 
The pot held £1,405. Mr. Hubber made out a 
check for his indebtedness. As they were 
about to leave the rooms, Gerald went to St. 
John, who had thrown himself on the couch, 
his face buried in the pillows. 


60 


SOCJETT^S PROTM^E. 


“ Come, St. John, cheer up ; all of you come 
to-morrow evening, and let me give you a 
chance to win this money back.” 

As the poor boy raised his face he looked 
ten years older. It was criminal. I know 
there is something wrong, for there is evi- 
dently some understanding between Lord Dolly, 
Col. Alcott and Gerald. They have all left with 
the promise to return to-night. As the door 
closed upon them, with Mrs. Hubber bringing 
up the rear, I demanded, “ Gerald, what is the 
meaning of this ? Are you afraid there would 
be more than an ignorant woman as a spectator 
to your play at the club, so you must needs 
turn your wife’s apartments into a gambling 
house ? Possibly you feared an exposure of the 
same sort as you had at the Union Club in New 
York. Gerald, had you no pity for that poor 
boy ; he is only a lad ? ” 

‘‘ I fancy he is old enough to take care of 
himself. It will give you something to do to 
reform him ! ” with a sneering laugh. “ My 
dear wife, you are under the impression that I 


SOGIETT^S PROTMME. 


61 


performed some legerdemain trick in order to 
get the hand I held. I am a first-class player, 
and there was no necessity to cheat. I intend 
to give them a chance to win back their 
losses.” 

Ajpril 18^4. 

At eleven p. m. Col. Alcott and Lord Dolly 
came. St. John entered hurriedly a quarter of 
an hour later. Mr. Hubber had been smoking 
with Gerald most of the evening. His wife 
met me in the corridor to-day and “ cut me 
dead.” My feelings are assuming a cast-iron 
coating. 

At half-past two they finished the game. 
Gerald had been steadily losing ; throughout 
the game he was the same as last evening, 
courteous and unexcited, never forgetting his 
role as host. I sat by his side watching and 
waiting, my eyes glued on his fingers, believing 
in some way he would turn his luck. I noticed 
that his bets were remarkably moderate. Mr. 
Hubber demanded “ if Sir Gerald was getting 
penurious,” and they arose from the tg-ble. Ger^ 


62 


SOCIETY'S PROTMj^E. 


aid got his portfolio and filled out a check for 
his indebtedness to each man. I wish I could 
understand why Gerald always uses his own 
inkstand in preference to any other. He refused 
a bottle that stood on my desk when Lord 
Dolly handed it to him. He muttered some- 
thing about having queer ideas.” His ink is 
such a peculiar stuff with a faint chemical odor 
and a transparent look. As the four men made 
their adieus, Gerald made a motion to me as if 
to be silent. 

“We must bid you good-by, as my wife and 
I leave to-morrow for the Eiviera.” At last we 
are rid of their presence, and I demand an ex- 
planation for our sudden departure. He ex- 
plained by saying, “ The Eiviera will not see 
us. We will go to Paris by the three o’clock 
train to-morrow, or rather to-day, looking at 
his watch.” 

“ To Paris,” I cry. 

“ Yes, no doubt you can be ready by that 
time.” 

Be ready — I felt 1 could have started that 


SOCIETY'S PR0TM^1E. 


63 


moment. I was so excited by my sudden turn 
of good fortune I did not speak to Gerald as I 
had intended doing — asking, praying him to 
at least spare me the indignity of the society 
of the men who had just left us. Mr. Hubber’s 
compliments, as I suppose he calls them, make 
my cheek burn at the very recollection. I hppe 
from the bottom of my tired heart I have seen 
the last of him. 

Only two more hours before we start for the 
Continent. Our anticipated trip to Paris re- 
minds me of my adventure with the priest. I 
wonder what has become of him ? 


Gerald has entered, excitedly stuffing an im- 
mense quantity of bank notes into a grip — says 
we are to leave immediately instead of on the 
three o’clock train. What does this money 
mean ? Has he carried out his plan in regard 
to Mr. Hubber? or has he had an opportunity 
to retrench his losses of the evening ? What 
does it all mean ? 


64 


SOCIETY ^8 PROT^:G^:E. 


Grand Hotel, Paris, April l^th. 

What a kaliedoscopio view of life a continen- 
tal hotel table WTidte enacts. As your eye runs 
down the long line on either side of the table, 
you may see a wizened Jew banker flirting 
with a be jeweled Spanish beauty. A stolid 
English matron who is husband-hunting for 
those two girls who have just graduated from 
the “ bread and butter miss ” period. Their 
faces are formed into an interrogation point at 
the piquant sayings of some pert American girl 
who is interesting a dissipated Eussian diplo- 
mat. At least this was the picture framed in by 
a marbled floor and a tapestried wall lit by a 
blaze of lights, that met my eyes as we seated 
ourselves at the table, a couple of hours after 
our arrival here. Gerald had insisted on my 
making an elaborate toilet, so I wore a white 
broadcloth trimmed with narrow bands of 
mink fur, and some pearl rings — that had once 
been mamma’s and I had had them re-set in 
Hew York. 

“By jove, Trix, that costume suits you 


SOGIETT^S PROT^IGM. 


65 


down to the ground,” I had the pleasure of 
hearing my husband say. But the pleasure 
was but momentary. “I want you to make 
an impression on the whole of Paris. First 
impressions are seldom erased. You are de- 
veloping into a most magnificent looking 
woman, and you must captivate some one.” 

This last remark was added as an after 
thought. As I mentally commented on my fellow 
diners, I wonder which one was to be Gerald’s 
next victim. Any one but that man seated 
alone at the end of the table, I reflected, as I 
noticed he was about twenty-five or thirty, 
with the manner and dress of a man of the 
world. Possibly he might be one of Gerald’s 
disciples, for he had the same nonchalant air, 
the same well-groomed look that I have ob- 
served men of Gerald’s type invariably have. 
It must be their stock-in-trade ! 

As I met the eyes of the man who was in- 
teresting me, I felt I had convicted him un- 
justly, for the frank, good-humored, but withal 
respectful look that met mine, I felt confident, 


66 


SOCIETY'S PBOT^GJ^E. 


was not that of a dishonorable man. Under 
Gerald’s tutorage I am becoming something of 
a physiognomist. 

It seemed as if dinner would never finish, 
and I was so impatient to see mamma and papa, 
who had promised to come at eight. They 
had met us at the depot, and oh, how glad I 
was to see them once more. They watched 
me anxiously — trying to detect any unhap- 
piness in my life. I am developing histrionic 
ability to the most astonishing degree, for I 
am sure they suspect nothing, and they shall 
never hear from my lips a word of the truth. 
This evening spent with them is the happiest 
I have had since I have been married — God 
bless them. 

April ^Ist. 

Gerald is away from me most of the day, 
so that I have an opportunity of spending 
many hours in papa’s cozy studio, with the 
faint perfume of Eastern hangings, the eye 
satisfied by quaint, sometimes rare china, the 
body rested on a huge couch, with its myriad- 


SOCIETY'S PROT^IG^IE. 


67 


colored pillows, a plate of apricots from the 
south of France at my side — ’tis then lam con- 
tented. 

I sat peeling an apricot for mamma this 
morning, and having finished it to my satisfac- 
tion I handed it to, her saying : “ Mamma, this 
takes me back to my days before my pilgrim- 
age to America. In those times we did not 
have apricots. I peeled green almonds for you 
in the same manner. They were dear at two 
sous a pound ! Seated here with you and papa, 
I feel like a schoolgirl again.” 

Papa throws down his palette, and sits be- 
side me. “ Yes, perhaps the home infiuence 
has the same effect upon you as it did months 
ago. You left us a little green almond of a 
girl — we expected you to return to us riper, per- 
haps with a hard shell of reserve, which when 
broken would disclose the same sound heart — 
instead of that we find we have a dainty apricot 
that some one has taken between their fingers 
as you did the fruit. We have forgotten the 
almond, and now marvel at the beauty of the 
apricot that was once in our possession.” 


68 


SOCIETY'S PEOTM^E. 


“Why, dad, what a wretched comparison. 
I have just peeled the apricot of its pretty 
skin, and you surely are not going to be so 
rude as to say that Gerald has treated me in the 
same barbarous manner ! If I had just come 
from the steamer, the remark might have been 
justified. I did j^^^Z then. Try another simile 
next time, you dear old father,” and I play- 
fully patted his cheek. 

“1^0, Trix, I am right. I am afraid your 
husband will rob you some day of the delicate 
bloom that tells of the delicious fruit beneath. 
My daughter, see that he does not rub off the 
bloom.” 

His remark affected me like a sudden cold 
wind. Was Gerald making me less womanly? 

Papa’s reproof has spoiled what otherwise 
would have been an ideal day. I have come 
home to dress, for we are to see “ L’ Africaine ” 
at the Grand Opera this evening. It will be 
my first appearance into the fashionable world 
of Paris. Gerald has procured a maid for me. 
It is to be hoped she has developed the sixth 


80CIETT*8 PROTJ^QJ^E. 


69 


sense — divination. One never meets those 
maids outside of novels. 

A box at the opera seems a frightful extrav- 
agance, but Gerald says that is part of our 
stock-in-trade. Fancy a Yan Antwerpen sink- 
ing to such a level. It is enough to make 
every one of my ancestors, the governor, the 
patroon and the rest of those stupid, but re- 
spectable old people, pale with anger. I am 
the last of the family (I hope to God) and I am 
making a disgraceful denouement. Beatrix 
Yan Antwerpen, the last of the family — the 
wife of a gambler. Perhaps the thought of 
that robbed my entrance into society — by the 
way of an opera box — of part of the notoriety 
that Gerald wished to create. 

I had put on three different gowns before 
Gerald was satisfied. At last a golden yellow 
with a shimmer of pink smothered in some fine 
old lace (some Aunt Betty had given me) was 
chosen. Gerald said, “No jewels. You are 
really too young for that sort of thing. The 
absence of diamonds will make you more con- 
spicuous P 


70 


SOCIETY'S PROTMj^E. 


“ But that is just what I want to avoid.’’ 

“ l^onsense ; you have been in Paris but a 
few days, and you are already known as Sir 
Gerald Cannon’s beautiful wife.” 

It is awfully stupid of me to write a con- 
versation of that sort, but believe me, mon 
confidante^ if I have beauty I will prize it only 
because it may some day win his love. 

Between the acts our box was visited by 
three men, more or less uninteresting, two of 
them Frenchmen, with tiny red buttons in 
the lapels of their coats. The other is an 
Enghshman, Lord St. Wood, who is not at 
ease except when following the hounds. From 
his manner I should fancy they would have 
been more congenial than the society of 
ladies. During the second act I saw Gerald 
motion to some one in the opposite box. 
The only occupant was a man, about 
twenty-five, whom I recognized as being the 
same as the one I had noticed the first evening 
in Paris. As he started evidently to come to 
us, Gerald hastily explained “ That is Carhart, 


SOCIETY'S PROTJ^G^JE. 


71 


son and heir of the wealthy baking-powder 
man. Got him out of a mess at the Moulin 
Kouge, the other evening. The son may 
write the testimonials in the advertisements, 
for all I know, but I have just seen him in Mrs. 
Duncan Elliott’s crowd, so he is evidently in 
the American colony. Here he is, benice^to 
him.” 

It was not so hard to “ be nice,” when my 
husband said, “ Beatrix, I wish to present Mr. 
Carhart of Hew York,” and my eyes met a 
pair of brown ones that looked into mine 
with open admiration. 

I motioned to the seat beside me. “Mr. 
Carhart, this is indeed delightful to meet an 
American, and above all one from my native 
city.” One’s birthplace is such a safe topic 
of conversation as long as dafes do not play 
a prominent part. Seeing we are safely 
launched on the sea of social nothings 
Gerald left us. I always breathe a sigh of 
relief when talking to any one — as I see the 
back view of his broad shoulders. 


n 


SOCIETY'S PROTM^JE. 


When he is not standing guard over me I feel 
I can talk naturally, instead of being, as I 
sometimes am, a bundle of affectation. I en- 
joyed the quarter of an hour spent with Mr. 
Carhart. He is a graduate of Harvard, and 
is abroad for a two years’ trip, and he has no 
family but a sister who is at boarding school. 
It did me good to hear an honest American 
twang and to see good American manners. 
As the curtain rose he started to go — ‘‘ Lady 
Cannon, I could not convince myself you were 
a married woman before I met you. I guess 
it is because you are so young,” he said 
bluntly. 

“ I should think you had the most 
substantial proof,” I replied, pointing my 
lorngnette in the direction Gerald had gone. 

“Yes, that was just what bothered me, you 
acted so much like brother and sister,” and the 
words, “I wish you were, ” were what his 
eyes said. “ Good-evening, Lady Cannon ; I 
hope we may meet later at Mrs. Elliott’s recep- 
tion?” 


SOCIETY'S PROT£o£e. 


73 


‘‘We are not going.’’ 

“ That will take away half the pleasure I 
anticipated. I trust we shall meet again,” and 
with a hearty shake of the hand he left, leav- 
ing a very good impression on an unimpres- 
sionable girl. 

“ Take care, Gerald,” I thought, “ women are 
often lost whose hearts are fed on the husks 
of indifference. The British matron may kiss 
the hand that strikes her, but the American 
woman allows no hand upon her — unless it is 
in the way of a caress. The American 
woman has become accustomed to men’s 
devotion since the day of America’s divorce 
from England, and we expect it. So Gerald’s 
neglect looks brotherly does it ? Somehow or 
other I do not think Mr. Carhart would treat 
his sister in the same brotherly fashion.” 

Ma/y ^th. 

Do YOU remember the priest whose acquaint- 
ance we made last year on the train going 
from Dover to London, Mrs. Diary ? This, 


74 SOGIETT'8 PROT^:G^:E. 

morning, after a visit to mamma, as I was 
about to step into a cab I bad hailed — the 
opposite door was opened simultaneously and 
in stepped mon j^retreP We recognized 
one another immediately, although he tells 
me 1 have changed. I insisted upon his driv- 
ing home with me, while he explained he was 
in Paris visiting his brother, but was soon to 
be on his way to Kome, where he had official 
business with the pope. His parish is at 
Yerney. One would scarcely imagine him to 
be an insignificant village cur6, arising for 
prayers at five o’clock on winter mornings, 
teaching the children of the village their 
breviary, living on bread and lettuce for three 
meals a day. On the other hand, his manners 
are those of a man who has said his prayers to 
the beads on a woman’s slipper — rather than 
to those of his rosary. I would rather fancy 
him to be a thorough cosmopolitan. 

When he arrived at our jpetit salon where I 
had invited him for a cup of tea — it was 
heroic of him to accept, for Frenchmen hate 


SOCIETY'S PB0TM^1E. 


75 


tea as much as they dislike a dowdy woman — 
in fact they generally associate the two — I 
noticed him taking in everything. I am sure 
even the burned match on Gerald’s writing- 
desk did not escape his notice. He seemed 
much interested in Gerald. As he rose to ga 
I asked him to call again, with the hopes of 
meeting my husband. As he left the room 
Mr. Carhart was announced. Mr. Carhart 
half bowed, but the priest did not acknowl- 
edge the salutation. 

“ Good-afternoon, Lady Cannon, will you 
forgive me for calling without your permis- 
sion, although I have your husband’s ? I have 
spent an hour that must have had one hundred 
and twenty minutes in it awaiting your 
return.” 

His assurance was thoroughly American— but 
refreshing. “ I only want to ask you, if you 
will accept this invitation I have been able to 
procure for Sir Gerald and yourself for the ball 
at the Elysee on Thursday. Madame Carnot 
is fond of Americans, beside the whole colony 


76 


80GIETT^8 PROTMM. 


of our compatriots will be there and you will 
have a chance to meet some of them. I do 
not know that I can offer any other induce^ 
ments.” 

“ I^one are necessary. I shall accept with 
much pleasure, if my husband is able to go,’' 
I said, while reflecting that Gerald would not 
forgive me if I did not accept. Here was a 
chance of his meeting the people of whom 
he was in search. Ah, I know what it means 
if we attend that ball ! 

“ As long as you accept. Lady Cannon, I 
shall tear myself away. If you had refused I 
should have been anchored here.” 

“ Keally, Mr. Carhart, you make me inclined 
to alter my acceptance to a regret,” I 
answered lightly. 

“ Does that mean you will let me stay and 
talk to you ? ” he eagerly asked. 

‘‘ It means you cannot stay unless you do 
talk to me! I shall ring for some fresh tea, 
while you tell me about yourself.” I must 
certainly patronize that young man or he will 


SOCIETY'S FROTtC^:E. 


T. 


prove dangerous. I shall try and impress 
him with the matronly air I sometimes assume. 

“ No, Lady Cannon, I shall be self-sacrificing 
and decline to talk of myself. To tell you the 
truth I do not feel as if I had any individual- 
ity when I am with you.” 

I must use the present not the future. That 
young man is dangerous. 

As I make no reply, he continues. 

“ You sing, I know, or is it simply an aes- 
thetic taste to have the music strewn around in 
that most enticing manner 

“Yes, I sing when there is any one willing 
to listen to me. You will no doubt hear Sybil 
Sanderson this evening, and I should hate you 
to have the memory of my voice linger even 
until then in your memory. Comparisons are 
disastrous.” Going to the piano I sang a 
number of the French songs that are popu- 
lar here. 

“ Thank you, I shall not say what a beauti- 
ful voice — that must be a conventional remark 
for your ears. It would be as preposterous as 


78 


80CIETY^8 PROT^:Q^:E. 


if I was to tell Balzac he is a great writer,” 
enthusiastically. 

“What rash compliments. You will turn 
my head,” I smilingly answered. 

“ If I could only turn it in my direction 
then hastily, “Here is something from ‘ Kobin 
Hood.’ Are you sufficiently philanthropic to 
sing this for me ? That was the last opera I 
heard in Hew York,” and leaning over the 
piano with one arm supporting a well-formed 
head, the other hand stuck in his trousers 
pocket, he looked attentively at me while I 
sang “ Oh, promise me.” As I finished, I said 
gayly, “ As that was your last opera in Hew 
York, it no doubt brings back tender recollec- 
tions.” 

“Ho, truthfully, it does not. Fact was I 
was one of many when the 7th Kegiment 
went to hear it one night, but if I ever hear it 
again I assure you it will possess the most 
charming souvenir,” with a look of tender- 
ness. 

“ Ah, here is the tea. Come, I want to talk 


SOCIETY'S PROTM^E. 


79 


of Helen Grant. How odd you should have 
Ivnown so many of my friends. Is it really 
true she is engaged to Barney Wells ? ” I asked, 
trying to continue a conversation we had had 
for a few minutes at the breakfast table yes- 
terday morning. 

“ Yes, I believe they are to be married in 
June. A case of pique with Barney. My 
sister writes some girl caught his heart 
and ground it beneath her dainty heel.” 

‘‘ Jilted ? ” I inquire, assuming an air of calm- 
ness I was far from feeling. 

“ I believe that was it.” 

“ So, Mr. Barney Wells,” I inwardly com- 
mented, “ it was jealousy that made you origi- 
nate that story of the cards. I must see if Mr. 
Carhart suspects he is talking to the ‘ jilt.’ ” 

“And who was the fair destroyer?” with 
indifference. 

“ Oh, some beauty, with lots of money and 
no heart.” 

Ho he cannot suspect it is me. 

“ Poor fellow,” I sigh, “ but his brother 


80 


SOCIETT^S FROTtQtE. 


has been more fortunate,” and so I succeeded 
in steering the conversation into safer 
channels. 

An hour after he made his adieu. 

“ revoir ; Lady Cannon, this has been the 
most delightful afternoon of my life,” 

“ Come, you are not consistent. Yesterday 
you swore the happiest day of your life was 
when you helped your crew snatch the honors 
from Yale.” 

“ Yery true, I thought so then. To-day is 
not yesterday.” 

“ I admit I am vanquished.” 

“No, to-day is not yesterday. I wish 
to-day had not come. I have spent a too 
delightful afternoon. Ah me ! ” 

Gerald returned in time to dress for dinner. 
He was in high spirits. When I told him of 
our invitation they went up ten degrees 
higher. 

“I accepted for you, Gerald. I must buy 
you a ‘ cross of the Legion of Honor,’ other- 
wise you will not be en regie. Where do you 


SOCIETY *S PROTJ^GJ^E. 


81 


suppose 1 could get a second-hand one ? ” I 
laughingly inquired. 

“You are behind the times. The crosses 
are not popular, at present. Gentlemen are 
distinguished by their lack of ornaments of 
that sort. Here/^ he continues, tossing, a 
number of hundred-franc notes into my lap, 
“ get a gown for the event.” 

“Where did you get this money from, 
Gerald?” 

“ Just where this came from,” showing me a 
large roll of paper notes. 

“That does not explain anything,” frig- 
idly. 

“Well, if you wish me to be more explicit, 
I have just come from the Paris Jockey 
Club.” 

“ Bets ? ” I inquire. 

“ No, cards,” shortly. 

“ And you expect me to take such money ? ” 
I demand angrily. “ I would rather go in my 
bath-robe with a sash around my waist than 
touch that money.” 


82 S0CIETY*8 PROTMj^E. 

“ Well, your costume might be cool, but not 
exactly conventional. They would put it 
down as an American eccentricity. You are 
certainly the most eccentric girl I have ever 
met;” and he pockets the notes. “Apropos 
of Americans I found out that Mr. Carhart’s 
father left him and his sister an enormous 
fortune. “I hope he will roll some of his 
dollars our way.” 

How brutal and coarse Gerald is some- 
times. 

Ma/y loth. 

Father Doijchet called again to-day. It 
was unfortunate that Gerald could not meet 
him. I think mon cure has a very magnetic 
manner. I find myself talking freely to him 
on every subject. Perhaps it is that his call- 
ing inspires me with confidence. Perhaps it 
is the fact that he made my railroad trip a 
year ago so pleasant. At times he frightens 
me. He almost reads my thoughts. As he 
left this afternoon his parting words were, 
“ Madame, remember, Celui quijpassepar la 
jyorte des disillusions est mort deuxfois.^^ 


SOCIETY'S PItOlM^!E. 


83 


Yes, truly, I have passed the door of disil- 
lusion. 

May VMh, 

My mornings are as usual spent at the tiny 
apartment in the Kue St. Honore in a more 
select neighborhood than we lived in my 
school days. My parents simply think me a 
contented and happy wife of an English 
gentleman, evidently with money. Why 
should I not be happy ? 

I took a laughing “ adieu ” of the “ blues ” 
some time ago. Gerald and I see less of one 
another every day. He stayed away all last 
night, leaving me in an agony of suspense. 
When he returned this morning he was heavy 
eyed and brutal. I rushed up to him with 
words of welcome on my lips. 

“Gerald, how you have frightened me. 
What is the trouble ? Tell me ! You look ill,’’ 
and the first time to his knowledge I kissed 
him. 

“ Leave me alone ; don’t kiss me. It makes 
me crawl.” 


84 


SOCIETT^S PBOT^:G^!E. 


Mortified and hurt I left the room, telling 
J anette as an excuse to get rid of her to take 
out my hat and parasol, as 1 intended to go 
out. Gerald^s voice called me : 

“ Beatrix, where is that box of chemicals ? 
Why do not you womfen leave my things 
alone ? ” 

“ I put them away, as you told me to be 
careful of them,” handing him a box that 
emitted an odor suggestive of a drug-store. 

“ Where are you going ? ” Gerald demanded, 
as he saw me buttoning my gloves. 

“Mr. Carhart is going with me to the 
morning reception at the iimerican Consulate. 
If you do not want me to go, I should much 
prefer to stay with you, dear,” I timidly 
suggested. 

“IS'o, go; I have something to do. Take 
Janette with you. I want to be alone. 
Beatrix, I must have some money,” he con- 
tinues, showing me a number of envelopes. 
“ Duns ! ” laconically. “ Show these to your 
friend^ Mr. Carhart. Perhaps he may want to 
pay them.” 


S0CIETT*8 PROTJ^G^IE. 


85 


‘‘How dare you speak to me like that,” 
I demanded, my face crimson. 

“ He is the only one that seems to have 
money, and if you do not get it out of him in 
a ladylike manner I certainly must in a gentle^ 
manly one,” he sneered. 

“ You will do nothing of the kind.” 

“ If you try to frustrate my plans,” clinch- 
ing hold of my arm, so it was numb, “ I 
would kill you. That is not what I married 
you for, my dainty wife. If you object to 
my plan of action, tell your aunt we must 
have some money. Your father might shell 
out, if he could get any one to buy his 
daubs.” 

Faint and sick I went to my room, too 
miserable to realize the treatment I had ex- 
perienced at my husband’s hands. In a few 
minutes Gerald knocked at my door, saying 
in his usual cheery voice, “ Trix, Mr. Carhart 
is waiting for you; are you nearly ready, 
dear ? ” 

I am learning self-control, for I made my 


86 


S0GIETT*8 PROTMj^E. 


appearance with my mask — a smiling face 
that might defy the world. 

As we left Gerald said, “ Do not forget what 
I told you.” 

“ iN’o,” I replied calmly. ‘‘ I never forget.” 


The reception at the Legation was a delight- 
ful affair. I met Lotta Cruger, who gave me 
a most spirited account of some of my old 
New York friends. As Mr. Carhart and I 
stepped into the carriage to return home, he 
shut the door with a bang — evidently in a 
bad humor. 

“ Stupid bores, these crushes.” 

“You surprise me, Mr. Carhart. I thought 
you said they were one of the affairs of 
Parisian society.” 

“Yes, I said that when I thought I was 
to see something of you,” sulkily. 

“What! an American and a monopolist? 
Impossible ! ” I answered laughingly. 

“ Perhaps I am, but if your husband is not. 


SOGIETT^S PROTMJ^E. 


87 


I want you to promise me at least six dances 
at the ball this evening,” eagerly 
“ Sir Gerald will not object,” dryly. 

‘‘Then they are mine; you cannot dance 
with these foreign beggars.” (Abuse of people 
in the abstract is such a safe method when you 
must find fault.) “They know as much 
about dancing as they do of foot-ball. You 
had best say yes in self-defense.” 

“ As you assure me it is a matter of personal 
comfort I consent — that is the only reason, 
remember. Here we are. My parasol, please. 
Merci ” and so we separate. 


Saturday, 

The ball is over. With the bits of faded 
fiowers, remnants of lace, a lost jewel or two, 
they have swept up my happiness. A week 
ago I thought I was wretched because I was 
the unloved wife of a gambler — perhaps worse. 
Then, at least I could feel myself innocent — 
but now 

These two days have been days of torture 


88 


SOCIETY'S PR0T^1C^1E. 


to me. What have they been to Mm ? The 
days that Jack — how odd that looks — and I 
spent together I realize now were poisonous, 
delicious, happy days. As God is above me I 
thought we were only learning the rudiments 
of friendship. 

Am I alone to blame ? 

As I dressed for the ball Thursday, Janette 
brought me a huge bunch of Parma violets, 
with a card attached, saying: 

“Mr DEAR Lady Beatrix : I believe these are 
your favorite flowers. Will you not wear them 
for my sake? Faithfully yours, 

“John Carhart.” 

Yes, I would wear them. Gerald had not 
thought enough of me to send me even the 
tiniest bunch. One little rose from him would 
have been prized above all else. I had never 
tried to make Gerald jealous. When a woman 
resorts to that weapon she is at the end of her 
resources. To-night I must make a conquest of 
my husband — or — Again I was interrupted 
by Janette, whose French face was puckered up 
in a smile. 


SOGIETY^S FROTtQ^lE. 


89 


“ Des violettes, encore^ madame.” 

Yes, another bunch whose fragrance re 
minded me of that chilly September morning, 
as the train stopped at an English village and 
Father Douchet had brought me some like 
these. The pere was scarcely a preuob 
cmalierP I^o, there was no card. In a flash 
it struck me it was Gerald who had sent them. 
Of course I had done him an injustice. He had 
not forgotten me. 

“Janette, tell your master I shall be ready 
directly. Ask him to come here as soon as 
possible.” 

The thought that had prompted him to re- 
member me made my eyes sparkle — the color 
came to my cheeks in a rebellious red. The 
white chiffon gown that had done service on 
several occasions during my Hew York winter 
looked, through my rose-colored spectacles, 
almost regal. I was truly happy. Gerald had 
regretted the cruel speech he had made this 
morning — this was his atonement. As I sat, 
with Janette putting the last touches to my hair, 


90 


SOCIETY'S prot^:gj^e. 


Gerald’s flowers held lovingly against my bare 
neck — Mr. Carhart’s forgotten at the end 
of my dressing table — Gerald came into the 
room. 

“ You want me? Beatrix, are you not ready ? 
By jove, what a swagger bunch of violets. 
Come, that is an awful extravagance.” 

“ You innocent man, you know it is not I 
that have been extravagant. Gerald, it was 
more than kind of you to think of me.” 

“ What the deuce are you talking about ? I 
do not know anything about the flowers.” 

I felt the tears coming into my eyes — he 
must not see them. 

“ Did you not ? There was no card. I fan- 
cied — ” my voice broke. “ Another hairpin 
there, Janette. Well, I shall wear Mr. Carhart’s 
bunch,” taking up the discarded flowers, and 
watching the effect on my husband — but he 
had turned, indifferent, fixing his necktie be- 
fore the glass. Ah, it was no use! 

“Gerald, lam ready. My cloak, Janette. 
Put the collar down; I am suffocating.” 


SOCIETY'S PItOT:^G^E. 


91 


The drive to the Ely see was a mute one. 
Gerald paid no attention to me, and my 
pride, no doubt a false one, kept me from 
making any advances. As we descended the 
grand staircase of the Elysee Gerald nodded 
to a number of the men, and I noticed that 
many bright eyes of the women looked at his 
handsome head and broad shoulders — and at 
my gown. Mr. Carhart met us at the door of 
the ball-room. As we were about to be pre- 
sented to the president and his wife some one 
stepped on my train. As I turned he apolo- 
gized, with a quick look at me, then at my 
flowers, and disappeared among the throng 
that surrounded us. 

“ Why,Gerald, that looked like Pere Douchet, 
of whom you have heard me speak. Perhaps 
you recollect seeing him, Mr. Carhart ? ” 

“ I remember meeting a priest coming from 
your apartment, and thinking at the time I 
knew the face — for so positive was I — I bowed 
to him on that occasion, but that clumsy 
man was Monsieur Letoire, Prefet de Police. 


92 


SOCIETT^S PROTJ^OJ^E. 


Your priest is lucky to have such a ^counter- 
feit presentment.’ They certainly do look 
something alike.” 

After the presentation to Monsieur and 
Madame Carnot I held quite a court in one 
corner of the salon. As soon as Gerald saw I 
was surrounded by a sufficient number of dis- 
tinguished men, he left me, so I was thrown 
helpless into the game of repartee, until Mr. 
Carhart came to claim a dance. They were 
playing “ Mon Koi.” The intoxication of 
the music, the odor of the flowers, the 
blaze of lights, turns my head. As I feel 
Jack’s arm around me, and we float off, Ger- 
ald comes back to where I had been standing 
and watches us. I feel the time has come — if 
Gerald is capable of suffering through jeal- 
ousy, he will now. The flattery of the men I 
have met, the strong, masterful way in which 
Jack holds me, the impression I cannot fail to 
see I have created, all tend to make me feel 
my power over men— all but Gerald. He has 
told me “ he hated my kisses.” Was it a won- 
der I was as one demented ? 


mOIEl'T^S PROTJ^GJ^E. 


93 


“ Lady Beatrix, you look like an angel,” 
Jack softly whispers. 

“ What a bizarre compliment. I hope there 
is not a nimbus around my head. I assure 
you I could not stand its strong light,” and I 
look into his eyes with all the coquetry of 
which my nature is capable. 

Gerald has seen the look, but wanders off to 
talk to a dark woman in scarlet — I detest bru- 
nettes — if he has thought anything about my 
behavior he has summed it up as the line of 
battle I had drawn up at his instigation, for 
the relief of his pecuniary affair. He would 
sell his wife for gold. I am reckless, mad. 
Jack catches my mood. His compliments are 
more open. Why should I stop him — they are 
my due. The waltz is finished. Jack leads 
the way to a Moorish room leading off of 
the grand salon. The room is dimly lighted 
by candles in sconces. As I seat myself on 
the divan Jack is close beside me — so close 
my bare arm touches his boutonniere — I 
think of nothing but the present. I am happy 


94 


SOCIETY'S PR0T]^G^:E. 


to have him near me. He at least cares for me. 
I am tired of being neglected. We sit still 
for a few moments, silently. I feel Jack’s 
eyes on my face, I feel his hot, quick breath on 
my bare shoulder. He breaks the silence. It 
is too much for either of us. 

“ Lady Beatrix, I must go away to-morrow. 
Will you miss me ? ” 

“ Going away ? ” I repeat, wondering at the 
sudden dull pain at my heart. “ Why ? ” I 
ask. 

“You know why, Beatrix; because every 
moment I am here I feel I am committing a 
crime. I leave because I have met a woman 
that has my love. A love that is eating my 
very heart out. A love that is so intense at 
times 1 feel as if I should stop at nothing. Her 
personality has bewildered me. Her beauty 
intoxicates me,” his breath coming and going 
rapidly. 

“And she — does she love you? ” I ask the 
question slowly — feeling as a child does that 
touches fire, knowing it will be burned. 


SOaiETY*S PROTJ^Q^IE. 


95 


“ God grant that she does. She is bound 
to another, but the thought that I have the 
love of a woman as good and true as she is 
would make me a man. I feel I am nothing 
but a brute now. Beatrix, have pity on me, 
and answer the question you have yourself 
asked. I have loved you from the moment 
you looked at me with those great violet eyes 
of yours. You have kindled that love into a 
passionate adoration with your beautiful face 
and dainty ways. Beatrix, you are not happy. 
Honor, friends, wealth, life itself is nothing in 
comparison with my idolatry. Let me, if I 
can, make you happy,” he whispers huskily. 

“ Hush, hush,” I answer, speaking for the 
first time. “Do not talk like that. It is 
wicked, cruel.” 

“ I will not utter another word if you say so. 
I will leave you never to return until you send 
for me, my darling, but tell me that you care 
something for me ? ” he says tenderly, taking 
my hands. 

“Mr. Carhart, Jack” — conventionalities 


96 


SOGIETT’S PROTJ^QJ^E. 


seemed out of place — Jack, if I were free I ” 
— then I close my eyes and pray. I silently 
asked God to give me strength to put away 
this temptation. It would be so easy to tell 
Jack that I love him. The law would free me 
from Gerald. Here was the man whom my 
heart now told me I cared for, a man who 
would give me an honorable name, a vast for- 
tune, and above all his great affection. Ho, 
I must be true to the untrue, faithful to the 
faithless. My life must be linked with Gerald’s. 
I had promised, “ through sickness and health, 
for richer for poorer, to cleave to no other.” 
Yes, I had decided. 

“Jack, if you would have me believe that 
what you say is true, leave me. Our love must 
not be tarnished by the shadow of a sin. We 
cannot, must not, see one another again. In 
mercy, leave me. Do you not see you are 
torturing me ? ” 

“ Beatrix, if it is your wish, I will leave you. 
Only promise me if you ever need me you will 
send for me. Good-by.” Eeverently he 


JSOCIETY^S PROTEGEE. 


97 


kisses my hands, draws the portieres aside 
and leaves me. I realize now I have sent him 
away from me forever. Forever ! Can I com- 
prehend what that means ? 

‘‘Jack,” I call frantically, “Jack, come 
back,” but it is too late. With a stifled cry, I 
bury my head in the pillows of the divan. Th’e 
thought of where I am helps me to gain some 
self-control. As I try to flx my tumbled hair 
Gerald enters. 

“ I have just met Carhart. He seems ex- 
cited and is going home. Why are you so 
pale ? Don’t look so at me, but speak ! Some- 
thing has happened between Carhart and you. 
Have you spoken to him as you threatened to 
do about the cards ? You could not have been 
such a fool. Come, answer me ! ” 

Thank God he does not suspect the 
truth. 

“ Ho,” I say, trying to speak lightly and forc- 
ing a smile. “ There was no need of my warn- 
ing Mr. Carhart, as I believe he leaves Paris 
to-morrow.” 


98 SOCIETY’S PROT^QM. 

“To-morrow,” Gerald repeats. “Odd he 
should not have spoken of it before,” turning 
on me quickly. “ Surely you cannot be such a 
fool as to lie to me,” sneeringly. 

I want to go home,” I answer. “ Do you 
not see this is no place to talk of our private 
alfairs ? ” 

“You evidently thought so until I entered” 
— sarcastically. 

During the ride home Gerald sits moodily 
chewing an unlit cigar, while I shrink in the 
corner of the carriage, shivering in my warm 
furs — ^more from nervousness than the cold. 
As we enter our rooms, lit only by a small 
grate-fire that gives a spectral appearance to 
the familiar furniture, and throwing my wrap 
off, I sink down before the fire waiting for 
Gerald to speak — and to gain time. A pause 
which Gerald breaks. 

“ Well, have you had long enough to think 
up a plausible story for Carhart’s sudden 
departure ? ” 

“ I am not trying to think up any excuse. I 


SOCIETY'S PROTM^E, 


99 


have never told you an untruth. Why should 
I now ? ” 

“Possibly you have never had occasion to 
before,” he growls irritably. “ I want no sub- 
terfuge. Carhart leaves Paris on your account ! 
If it is not the matter of cards, what is it ? 
Come, speak. Most women have a tongue and 
I fancy you are no exception ! ” 

Burying my face in my hands I sink on the 
floor. 

“ Come, heroics will not help you,” he con- 
tinues. “ We cannot stay here all night. It 
is four o’clock now.” 

My conscience says, “You have been guilty 
of listening to words of love from a man that 
is not your husband. Your only atonement is 
in confession.” 

“Gerald,” I falter, “Mr. Carhart leaves 
Paris because he cannot in honor remain.” 

“ By jove, you mean he is in love with you ? 
Have you just discovered that to-night, my 
dear wife? I gave you credit for a greater 
power of discrimination. I knew that the 


100 


SOCIETY'S PBOTMJ^E. 


minute he looked at you. Most men stay with 
the woman of their heart instead of rushing 
off. But he’s an odd chap ! ” 

I am now thoroughly calmed by his utter 
depravity. 

“ You knew he loved me, and thought in 
giving us every opportunity of being together, 
and in allowing him to care for your wife, you 
could accomplish your own mercenary ends? 
Gerald Cannon, I am your wife in the sight of 
God. Such 1 shall remain until death frees 
me. But I hate and loathe you from the bot- 
tom of my soul.” Quietly I close and lock my 
door. 

That night I spent in an armchair by the 
open window, living over my life and the scene 
with Gerald that morning, and the subsequent 
meeting with Jack. 

I take a guilty pleasure in repeating over 
and over his words of endearment. It is a 
comfort to know there is some one in this 
world who is perhaps thinking tenderly of me. 
I try to analyze my love for Jack— a love that 


S0GIETT*8 prot^:g^:e. 


101 


has taken me by storm — the love that turned 
the insipid affection I had for Gerald into an 
intense loathings— and thus I thought out the 
olla-jpodrida of my life. I must have slept, for 
1 awoke as the dawn crept into the room. 
Feeling stiff and cold — my ball gown a limp 
mass of departed finery — I rang for Janette, 
after taking off my clothes, and told her to let 
me know as soon as her master left the rooms. 

A few hours later, as I heard the door close 
behind him, I hastily dressed, without my break- 
fast, went to pay my mother her customary 
visit, not to tell her of my troubles, which at 
times I am afraid she guesses. I returned to 
the hotel in time for luncheon. I tried to see 
my way clear. Duty has more than ten fin- 
gers, and when in doubt they all point in dif- 
ferent directions. I wondered if Jack had left. 
Why did he not disobey me, and come and say 
good-by ? Perhaps it were best ! 

A thought strikes me. I will send for 
Father Douchet. He at least will help me. I 
cannot find my own portfolio, so I use Gerald’s. 


102 


80G1ET7*8 PROTMJ^E. 


He has forbidden me to use it. My sense of 
honor is greater than his — perhaps. I would 
not think of looking at his private papers. 1 
suppose the fact that he asks me not to use his 
pen and ink is a veiled hint to respect his cor- 
respondence. 

As I open the portfolio a letter written in 
an unformed hand on heavily scented helio- 
trope paper, with an immense monogram on the 
envelope, drops out. Evidently from a 
woman. Gerald had laughed at me for re- 
specting my marriage vows. Surely I 
cannot with reason expect he keeps his. 
The thought has no power to wound me 
now — and the letter is put back again. Word 
has been sent to Pere Douchet. The odor 
from the ink in Gerald’s portfolio is sickening. 
I had to hunt up my own to finish the note 
with and to write you up with, my faithful 
gossip. What a garrulous pen I have gotten 
hold of to be sure. 


SOGIETT^S PB0T^:0^:E. 


103 


Father Douchet has just called. I felt the 
utmost confidence in speaking to him. I knew 
I had no right to expose Gerald’s conduct ; 
but my own — I was not lenient with myself. 
He saw I was in trouble, but did not comfort 
me with the tact that has always distiuguished 
him. 

He said, ‘‘Madame, there are some secrets 
we cannot tell even to those who, we 
feel, have our interests at heart as readily 
as we can to a stranger. If there is anything 
on this earth — and this is no rash promise — 
that I can do for you, believe me, I am ready 
to undertake it. But I ask you not to confide 
in me as a confessor, but as a man. Tell me 
nothing but what you would to perhaps a true 
friend, but do not look upon me as a priest. 
Madame, leave that for the confessional.” His 
manner was brusque, he seemed strangely 
excited. 

“I cannot go to confession. I am a 
Protestant.” 

“What difference does that make. Does 


104 


S0GIETY*8 prot^:g^:e. 


the Lord ask, when we confess to Him, ‘ Be- 
fore 1 listen to you tell me if you worship me 
in a Lutheran chapel or in a Koman 
cathedral?’ Why should his disciples dis- 
criminate ? ” speaking with feverish rapidity. 
More calmly, “ Madame, your note says,” 
taking it from his pocket, “ that you want 
my advice and counsel, does it not ? ” handing 
it to me. 

“ Yes, that is what I wrote, but only one 
page of the writing is here,” I said, looking 
at the blank sheet. ‘‘That is certainly the 
paper I wrote to you on. There is my crest 
at the top, there is the same odor of the ink 
I used.” 

“Does madame always use that perfumed 
ink?” 

“ Ho, now I think of it, I wrote the last 
part of the letter from a different inkstand.” 

“Will you compare this with the rest of the 
note paper ? ” 

“ Certainly ; see, it is the same. I surely 
wrote you a note about an hour ago, other- 
wise you would not have come here.” 


SOCIETY ^8 FROTMM. 


105 


^‘Yery true; what a detective madame 
would make,” with a peculiar smile. “ I think 
I can expain it. You wrote it in a great 
hurry — is it not so ? ” I nodded. “ And 
madame wrote on two sheets of paper 
instead of one. I have, no doubt, lost 
the other sheet among the papers I 
had around me when your note came ; 
probably I shall find it on my desk when I 
return home. It is of no consequence. We 
both know it contains no secret, do we not, 
madame,” he slowly asks, keeping his eyes on 
my face. 

There is something that repels me. I am 
sorry I sent for him. I must try and get rid 
of him. 

“ Father Douchet, I will follow your advice, 
and will go to confession this afternoon at 
[N’otre Dame,” I say. 

“ You are wise, my child ; lay bare your 
heart to God. You have no sins to confess, 
for in bringing you into the world he made a 
good woman, I have not helped you. I will 


106 


SOCIETY’S PROT^IQM. 


not accept your confidence, but some day ^^ — 
and he puts strange stress on the words — “ I 
hope to do so. Adieu, madame.” 

Yes, he is right. It will be easier to ask 
advice of a strange priest. 


I went to the “ Eglise de N^otre Dame,” and 
as I slipped into one of the confessional boxes 
an aged priest entered with me. 

The church was dimly lighted by the last 
rays of the afternoon sun. I saw the outlines 
of his face. His gray hair and kindly manner 
inspired me with confidence. I knelt on the 
confessionary and poured out my troubles into 
his attentive ear. I kept nothing from him. 
My self-denudation was complete. He gave 
me comfort and his kindly words broke like 
rays of sunlight over the dark clouds of trouble 
and doubt that hung over me. I left the con- 
fessional with the strength to put away from 
me the love of the man who was not my hus- 
band. The man to whom the law had bound 


SOCIETY ^8 PROT^JG^JE. 


107 


me must be my sole thought. I wish I could 
cry like some women. My heart is like a red- 
hot coal in my breast. I have seen nothing of 
Gerald for two days. Janette says he has not 
been here in my absence. 


Sunday. 

My God, something frightful has happened. 
What is to become of us ? I was awakened by 
a loud knocking on my door about midnight. 
Gerald’s voice said, “ Come here, Beatrix, 
quickly.” 

There was a note of excitement in his voice. 
I hurriedly slipped on a peignoir, and went to 
him, not without a shudder of repulsion, as I 
recollected under what circumstances we had 
last met. “Yes, Gerald, what is it? ” 

“ What has become of my inkstand ? ” 

“ I know nothing of it. I wrote a note at 
your desk this morning, and when I left it the 
inkstand was there. I could not find my own 
at that moment.” 

“ To whom did you write ? ” 


108 SOGIETT^S PMOTM^E. 

“ To Father Douchet ! ” 

“And who came into the apartment to- 
day?” 

“ Father Douchet and the servants.” 

“ Was Carhart here ? ” 

“ Certainly not. How can you ask ? ” and 
the angry blood mounted to my cheeks. 
“ Surely you cannot be excited over the possible 
theft of a cheap inkstand ? ” 

“ Can you not understand I am lost, ruined. 
That petticoat priest would have no object in 
stealing the ink. Some one has done it to ex- 
pose me. Damn it, you have brought this on 
by your meddling interference. Wake Janette 
and pack my grip. I must leave Paris by 
the first train.” 

He goes for a “ Bradstreet,” while I pack his 
clothing. There is no need to disturb Janette. 
I hear him tearing up papers in his room. I 
do not dare question him. Something has 
happened, but as far as I can see it is the most 
childish affair I have ever heard of. 

“ Are my things ready ? There is a train 


SOCIETT^S PR0TM^!E. 


109 


that leaves the ‘ Gard de Lyon ’ for Folkstone 
at 4:17. I must take that. King for a cab.” 

“ You are going to leave me here alone in 
Paris while you go to London ? ” I ask. 

“ Yes, go back to your mother and father. 
Have you any money ? ” 

I give him a few hundred francs. Then I 
leave the room to dress hurriedly. 

As he starts to leave I say, “ Gerald, I am ’ 
going with you ! ” 

“ Where ? ” 

“Wherever you go. You say I am the 
cause of your trouble — how, I cannot under- 
stand. Janette will stay here and see after our 
luggage. My place is at your side. If you 
have ever needed a wife you do now that you 
are in trouble.” 

He looks at me a moment. “ Do you mean 
you love me ? ” 

“Ho, honestly, I do not.” 

“ Then why did you not go with Carhart ? ” 

“ Because I am your wife.” 

“ Beatrix, forgive me if you can. I did not 


110 


SOCIETY ^8 PROTM^JE. 


think there was a good woman on this earth. 
You are a saint.” 

The drive to the depot is short. The gray 
of the sky is just tinged by magenta, a hand- 
cart of fruit is being pushed by an old peasant 
in a short skirt, with sabots that fall on the as- 
phalt pavements with a clang. A couple of work- 
men in blue jean blouses are talking, with their 
hands in their pockets at one corner of the 
boulevard. A boy shrilly whistling a comic 
air with a bundle of charcoal under his arm 
runs from under the horses’ hoofs as they dash 
around the corner. As we alight and the 
“ cocher ” calls a porter for our meager luggage, 
two gendarmes march up and take Gerald by 
the arm. Behind them is a man in citizen’s 
clothes, and I see he has an ominous-looking 
paper in his hand. 

“Sir Gerald Cannon, I arrest you in the 
name of the Kepublic.” 

As he speaks I see for the first time that the 
Prefet de Police and Father Douchet are one 
and the same. 


SOCIETY* 8 TROTMAe. 


Ill 


“ What does it mean ? ” 

I go to Gerald whose face is ashen. 

“ It means that you had me trapped by your 
cursed interference.” To the gendarmes^ “ I am 
ready ; no need of those bracelets.” 

As they start to take him away I cry frantic- 
ally, “ Gerald, I shall go with you ; ” but they 
push him into a carriage and bang the door, 
while Father Douchet, or rather the Prefet, 
puts me half-fainting into the fiacre we have 
just vacated. 

“ Madame,” he says, “ I do not wish to in- 
trude myself, but I shall see you to your hotel.” 

In my half-unconscious state I try to under- 
stand it all. My brain seems clogged. I say 
to myself, “ What does it all mean. Why is it 
the Prefet instead of Father Douchet that is 
with me ? Gerald had said it was 1 that had 
had him trapped. The letter — Father 
Douchet’s visit. Yes, yes, my brain was be- 
ginning to work now. I almost drag the 
Prefet to my rooms as we reach the hotel. I 
close the door and stand with my back to it. 


112 


SOCIETY’S PROT^)Q^:E. 


“Now, Monsieur Letoire — no more Father 
Douchet,” and my lips curl, “ will you explain ? 
Speak ! ” As he is still silent, I cry, “ do you 
not think you have tortured me sufficiently. 
Will you answer me ? ” 

“ Madame, you have put me on the defen- 
sive, and I hardly know how to start.” 

“ Tell me why my husband is arrested ? ” 

“ Your husband. Lady Cannon,” and his 
breath came heavily, “ is arrested for forgery.” 

“ It is a lie,” I say quietly. 

“ For your sake I wish it were,” he replies. 

“ Now tell me why you have masqueraded 
in this dramatic fashion. Monsieur Letoire ? ” I 
demand, unable to restrain the contempt I 
feel. 

“I hardly think you are in a condition to 
hsten to me, nor is this the time I should care 
to take to tell you what will be a long story.” 

I motion him to a seat. 

“ Speak,” laconically. 

“Lady Cannon,” he commences, while ab- 
stractedly pulling off his gloves, “ a year ago 


SOCIETT^S PBOT^!G^:E. 


113 


we met in a railway carriage. I had assumed 
the disguise of a priest, as I was on the track 
of a notorious blackleg who had swindled a 
number of Americans of large sums of money 
at many of the principal watering places of 
France. He had had an accomplice whose de- 
scription 1 had in my pocket. At the time we 
met you answered to that woman’s description. 
I watched you during most of that journey and 
came to the conclusion that you were a won- 
derfully clever actress. As soon as you talked 
I saw that I was on the wrong track. The 
priest’s disguise was assumed at Dover as being 
the easiest to ingratiate myself with a woman. 
The man of whom we were in search was 
known as Lord Manchester alias Sir Gerald 
Cannon. There — I knew you were in no con- 
dition to listen to my story.” 

“ Continue,” firmly. 

“Lord Manchester made his escape to 
America under his own name, disguised as a 
steerage passenger he got on board. Once in 
the United States we were powerless. The 


114 


80G1ETT*8 PROT^:a^:E. 


1 


woman who was his accomplice was his brother 
of seventeen. We are still on his track. He 
escaped, but not with his brother. In Hew 
York Sir Gerald attempted to fleece those he 
met in a systematic manner. During his stay 
there information came of this brother’s retreat 
in France. It was necessary that he should 
have another accomplice. He married a Hew 
York society girl with a fortune, believing that 
her social prominence would further his ends.” 

“ My God,” I say faintly. 

‘‘ Believing that it was impossible to remain 
any longer in Hew York, he and his wife re- 
turned to England, where he succeeded in im- 
posing on some Americans. Ah, I see you 
start. Hoping he could help his brother in 
some way he again came to France. The 
authorities did not recognize him, not being at 
that time so fully acquainted with the partic- 
ulars as we are now. Seeing you on one 
occasion at the ‘ Porte St. Matin,’ I recognized 
you. May I say your face has ever been be- 
fore me ? I knew that I could only present 


SOCIETY'S PROTtoM. 


115 


myself in the character you had first known 
me. Believe me, when I again met you I in- 
tended it should be simply in a social sense. 
It did not take me long to discover you were 
unhappy. In my character of a priest you 
confided in me, while as Monsieur Letoire we 
would have been nothing but strangers to one 
another. Had your husband known me as 
Monsieur Letoire our acquaintance would have 
ended. From a remark or two make by you I 
saw that you did not realize what sort of a 
man it was that you had married. Convinced 
that your husband and Lord Manchester, minus 
the beard and mustache, with dyed hair, and 
an altogether different manner, were one and 
the same, I worked hard to trap him, know- 
ing his custody would be your release. In 
writing me a note you played right into my 
hands. That note explained what has hitherto 
baffled us. Sir Gerald Cannon concocted an 
ink which, according to its strength, fades 
after a certain length of time. Madame, for- 
give me, you are too weak to stand such a 
brutal narrative.” 


116 


80GIETT*a PROTMj^E. 


“ Go on,” sternly. 

“ That ink has been used to sign his bills, his 
debts of honor, his ‘ I. O. U’s.’ He has always 
taken care to leave before the slips of paper 
have become blanks. Your note explained its 
vanishing qualities. You diluted it, did you 
not, madame ? ” 

I nodded. 

“ I came, not to hear a confession, which as 
a priest you wished me to listen to. I came to 
find that ink ! Sir Gerald, in discovering the 
theft, we knew, would escape if possible. We 
were prepared for him. The rest you know.” 

Yes, the rest I knew. 

“ But that was not forgery.” 

“Ho, madame, that was obtaining money 
under false pretenses, but Sir Gerald has drawn 
money on James Munson, of 9 Kue Scribe, for 
drafts signed by Miss Elizabeth Yan Antwerpen 
of Hew York City, who I believe is your 
aunt. Lady Beatrix, so far I have spoken only 
in my ofiicial capacity. I pray you let me 
speak as — as your friend. Sir Gerald will be 


SOCIETY'S FUOTM^IE. 


117 


convicted of a forgery beyond a doubt. His 
sentence will give you a divorce, not only in 
France but in the courts of the United States. 
Lady Beatrix, you are free.” 

“ Hot free, but a divorced wife. I thank you, 
monsieur.” 

‘‘You are more than cruel. Lady Cannon. 
I am now speaking as a man, when I say that 
if I had believed your happiness depended upon 
your husband’s liberty, I should have sacri- 
ficed my official honor — everything. I should 
have helped him to escape, if it would have 
been for your sake. Do you appreciate my 
feelings toward you ? There, do not tremble. 
I know you to be a pure woman, who would in 
time be influenced by a bad man. Ho woman 
is strong enough to resist the daily effect of 
such a power. I am a man of the world. I 
am accustomed to weighing my actions. I love 
you. Ah, I see my bluntness has frightened 
you. The desire of my life is to make you my 
wife. Perhaps it is indelicate to speak at such 
a time but your very helplessness — a helpless- 


118 


SOCIETY'S PEOT^OJ^E. 


ness that in a woman I adore, prompts me to 
tell you at such a time. I shall leave you, 
with the hope that what I have told you con- 
cerning your — Sir Gerald’s past life, and his 
crime, will find an atonement in your eyes, in 
the fact that your happiness is what has justi- 
fied it all. Will you not give me your hand 
in saying good-by ? Thank you,” as I pas- 
sively shake hands. “Kemember that you 
have a friend who will sacrifice everything for 
your sake. Adieu.” 

He has gone! I look around the rooms, 
filled with boxes and trunks, and a feeling of 
the most unutterable desolation comes over me. 
Where is Janette? Ho answer to my ring. 
Is that a note from her ? Surely it is. 

“Madame: I see you have returned. Your 
husband has given me orders to follow him. 
Madame can understand why I cannot remain 
in her service. Kespectfully, 

“ Janette Provost.” 

This blow is too much for me. 

I am too weak to feel indignant at this fresh 


SOCIETY '8 PIlOTM^lE. 


119 


insult. Another proof of Gerald’s baseness. 
My God, I am too sick at heart to wish to live. 
Perhaps I am a coward — but it is the last straw 
that tells. 


END OF PAET FIEST. 


120 


80GIETT*8 PnOTtQ^lE. 


PART 11. 


Paris, Thursda/y, June l^th, 189-. 

[Extract from Le petit Journal^ 

“sir GERALD CANNON FOUND GUILTY ! 

“PARIS HAS A NEW SHUDDER ! 

“his wife prostrated by the shock! 

“ Society elbowed the fringe this afternoon 
at the trial of the English baronet, Sir Gerald 
Cannon. When the court gave the verdict of 
guilty and the sentence of ten years of penal 
servitude for forgery the prisoner was over- 
come. He asked for his wife for the first time 
during his trial. When told she was suffering 
from brain fever he buried his face in his hands 
and wept. The evidence of Monsieur Letoire, 
Prefet de Police, Mr. Jonathan Hubber, a 
citizen of Chicago, U. S. A., Marquis de Bur- 
net, Monsieur Munchiviz of the Kussian Em- 
bassy, Yiscount Ameran, all of the Paris 


SOaiErT'8 PROTEGEE. 


121 


Jockey Club, have succeeded in convicting the 
Englishman. They all testify to having been 
defrauded of large sums of money either b}^ 
forgery or the medium of fraudulent ink. 
This ink is composed of mercury and prussic 
acid, with a strong element of some unknown 
poison, according to the testimony of Monsieur 
Gaudet of the Associated Chemists. No one 
is surprised at the decision of the court, as the 
convicted man’s record is too well known, both 
in Continental cities and in London. Sir Ger- 
ald Cannon, Baronet, whose heavily mortgaged 
estates at Caneston, Hertfordshire, failed to 
give him sufficient income for the gratifica- 
tions of his tastes, is the eldest son of Sir Hum- 
phrey Cannon, the distinguished Liberalist. 
Sir Gerald’s two younger brothers are now 
traveling ; one is in Africa, the other in India. 
It is believed it is the brother who was asso- 
ciated with Sir Gerald in the notorious affair 
at Torquay about a year and a half ago. Sir 
Gerald’s sentence secures his wife an absolute 
divorce. Lady Cannon, who is considered the 


122 


SOCIETY'S PROTMJ^E. 


most beautiful woman in Paris, has been con- 
fined for the last month at the home of her 
father, Mr. Henry Yan Antwerpen, the well- 
known artist of 89 Rue St. Honore. It is be- 
lieved the English consul will make strenuous 
efforts to have the sentence commuted to five 
years. It will be unadvisable, as the popular 
opinion is against the English baronet.” 

Paris, September — . 

They say it is six months since you and I 
parted, dear confidante. There was dust on 
your cover and the key squeaked in your 
lock as I opened you this morning. I have 
neglected you, and yet, woman as you are, 
you have, I know, faithfully kept my secrets. 
These long weeks • of sickness and forget- 
fulness have changed me a little. All my 
color has left me and my eyes look out of 
proportion to my face. I am now convales- 
cent. To-day I sat in front of a huge grate 
fire (for Paris is cold at this time of the 
year) on a fur-covered couch, watching the 


SOCIETY'S PROTM^E. 


123 


heat as it took me in its embrace. I have 
on a black gauze negligee, spangled with jets, 
that suggest a mourning attire — am I not a 
widow — or worse? 

Mamma and I have talked it all over. 
Thank God, I was too ill to know the details 
of the trial. They have only shown me one 
paper. I have clipped the notice out and have 
pasted it in this book. That Gerald is in Aus- 
tralia I know. I have never seen him since 
that morning ! Perhaps it was for the best. 

As soon as I am well enough I shall leave 
Paris. I do not know what my position will 
be in society here, and I should prefer to be 
the first one to give the cold shoulder. That 
always seems the wisest plan. 

Monsieur Letoire’s attentions have, I fear, 
been misconstrued. The fact that he called 
upon me in the disguise of a priest has com- 
promised me. I have seen him for the first 
time to-day. They tell me he has left flowers 
at my door every morning of my illness — 
sweet Parma violets. 


124 


SOCIETY’S PR0'1^:0J^E. 


The day he made me the offer of marriage 
my heart was too full of my own trouble to 
appreciate his. I was angry, hurt, that he 
should thrust such an offer on me at such a 
time, but in my quieter moments I realize why 
he did it. He wanted me to feel that what 
efforts he had made were for my own happi- 
ness, and he was man enough of the world to 
see that my friends (what a misnomer) would 
gradually forget me. There was one that had 
my interest at heart, ready to take me to his 
heart and home. 

Mamma and papa are old-fashioned enough 
to take a sentimental interest in the suit. 

Mamma says, day after day, “ Trix, you 
know I am not worldly. I do not advise you 
to marry a man you do not care for — but 
Monsieur Letoire loves you devotedly, he is a 
respected man, with a high official position. 
You cannot but admire his honesty and sin- 
cerity. You married for love once — ^you are 
more of a woman now, therefore my advice is, 
marry a man whose tastes are congenial, and 
one who lays a man’s love at your feet.” 


SOCIETY'S PBOT^:qM. 


125 


Perhaps she is right, but would her advice 
be the same if she knew of Jack ? When I 
heard of my freedom, that love burst forth a 
thousandfold more intense for being kept hid 
in my heart. My head tells me he has been 
cruel. Not a word have I heard from him in 
my trouble. Perhaps he regrets the hasty 
words he uttered on the impulse of the 
moment. 

My heart argues, “ He loves you — you know 
it — why judge him hastily,” so thus I sit and 
dream, folding the remembrance of him to my 
breast with a woman’s constancy. 

Monsieur Letoire called just as the last rays 
of the afternoon sun were filtered through the 
curtains. Silently he came to my side. 

‘‘ Beatrix, how happy I am to see you are 
able to be up once more.” 

I see by the flickerings of the grate that he 
is much thinner. He too has suffered. 

‘‘Yes, and able to see my friends,” Isay, 
with an effort to be gay, and so we talk in that 
inane way that people will when the heart is 


126 


SOCIETY'S PROT^JO^JE. 


full of other subjects too deep to be probed at 
the first few moments of conventional conver- 
sation. At last we arrive at the point I see he 
has been striving for. 

“Beatrix,” he asks apropos of my illness, 
“ do you remember what I said to you six 
months ago '( ” 

I cannot repress a shudder. 

“ Ah, I see that wound is not yet healed,” 
and he takes his eyes from my face and gazes 
into the burning coals. 

“ Monsieur Letoire ” — I cannot call him 
Henri — “ I recollect distinctly what you said ; 
you asked me to be your wife. I could not 
answer you then. I will now. I have looked 
upon you in the past as a priest. First im- 
pressions are most tenacious. During my ill- 
ness I have thought of you only in that capac- 
ity. Will you not wait until I feel I know 
you in some other light ? That I respect you 
— you know. To be perfectly honest, my 
heart is not wholly free.” He gives a start and 
breathes a quick sigh. “ If I feel toward you, 


SOCIETY'S PR0T^:0^:E, 127 

as I do now I feel confident you would not 
want me to become your wife. Let me give 
you your answer in six months.” 

“ Beatrix, believe me, I ask you nothing that 
is not voluntary. That you cared for some 
one else I long ago feared. You give me six 
months to win your love. More I cannot ask. 
Let us bury the past and live, not exist, in the 
future. You look tired, my child. I shall 
leave you. Try and rest.” He bends over and 
kisses my hand for an instant and is gone. 

As he leaves I take up the train of thoughts 
that come surging upon me. He has suspected 
my love for Jack? Was that why he worked 
to set me free ? Perhaps I have not given him 
credit for a nobility that lies under a seem- 
ingly selfish exterior. The people we never 
suspect are always the ones that turn out 
heroes. Oh, Jack, Jack, why have you for- 
gotten me? Why do you not come to me 
now I am free ? 

My day dreams are ended as mamma en- 
ters with a light. 


128 


SOCIETY'S PROTJ^Q^iE. 


“ What, all alone in the dark ? ” she ques- 
tions. 

“ Yes, alone in the dark.” I am sure she 
does not suspect the hidden meaning of my 
answer. 

Paris, October. 

I MUST break away from this life or it will 
kill me. The monotony of my thoughts, the 
ennui of living, weary me to death. How 
much I could think of Monsieur Letoire if he 
was not a would-be suitor. As a friend he 
would be adorable. As a lover he is insuffera- 
ble. Perhaps it is the weak state of my nerves 
that makes me magnify trifles. Every after- 
noon he calls. I look forward to his visits, 
not eagerly, but with an interest that an un- 
prejudiced observer would say portended suc- 
cess for him. The hour he spends with me is 
devoted to the most impersonal conversation. 
He wins me by his intellect, but the thought 
adder-like creeps in that he is charming me 
and I feel I must not let myself go. The 
afternoon is spoiled. I bid him good-by with 


SOCIETT^S PROTJ^O^:E. 


129 


the same interest I welcomed him, and thus we 
go around in a vicious circle. Kow that I 
am quite strong enough to go out, Aunt Betty 
writes for me to come to her, but I have not 
the moral courage to return to the city 
that once counted me among its belles, and 
would now go back as one out of tune. 

My position in society here is evident. 
Society has built a fence around its sacred 
precints. I must not try to get over on some 
one else’s shoulders — perhaps even then only 
to get a peep. IS^o, I am on the other side of 
the fence now. I am the wife of a felon. 
There is a barbed wire of prejudice. If I 
should attempt to climb over I should have 
the missiles of doubt and distrust flung at 
me. 

Jack, dear, it is now I need you. You said 
you would come when I sent for you. I am 
free — free to tell you I am yours. The law 
has divorced me from a man I never loved. 
Pity is the only sentiment he can awaken in 
me. You taught me what love meant when I 


130 


SOGIETY^S PROT^Q^E. 


met you. I have had my cup filled to the 
very brim with bitterness. Why should I not 
have my share of happiness ? I am just com> 
mencing to live my womanhood. The future 
again lies in my hands. What shall I do 
with it? 

A week later. 

My plans are quite matured. I leave with 
a maid for Mentone to-day. I have engaged a 
“wagon-lit” for Marseilles by the night 
express. It is wiser to leai^e Paris. 

Hotel de Paris,, Monte Carlo. 

What a relief it is to be here with no one to 
bore me but myself. I have come to the 
worldly conclusion the less we know of people 
the more we appreciate them. We have been 
here just a week. I go for my daily drive in 
the morning, perhaps to a pigeon match in the 
afternoon, and bring back my schooldays by 
retiring at the primitive hour of nine, falling 
asleep to the hum of voices in the courtyards, 
or the faint, indistinct music that floats up 


SOCIETY'S PROTJ^OJ^E. 


131 


here from the Casino. I begin to feel some- 
thing like myself, and have even gone so far 
as to write Monsieur Letoire a letter that was 
just tinged with the sentiment no doubt I shall 
some time bear toward him. I have thought 
of going to Dresden from here to cultivate my 
voice. I hate to feel dependent upon my 
father. To be sure, he is comfortably off now 
and his pictures bring any price he cares to 
ask — still I have no right to be a burden. 

Monday. 

My room is redolent with flowers, and the 
salty air of the Mediterranean, that looks like 
a myriad-colored opal. The whole surface 
seems dimpled with smiles that find a re- 
flection in my heart. Everything is joyous, 
for I am wildly, deliriously happy. 1 look out 
of my window at the pretty little peasant 
girl that offers me a sweet, odorous bunch of 
roses. “For two sous, madame,’’ she says 
in her pretty patois. I throw her half a 
franc with a smile, and send her on to her 
next customer. 


132 


SOCIETY’8 PROTM^JE. 


Do you want to know why I am in so gay a 
holiday mood, Madame Confidante? Now, 
just guess. Is it because I have broken the 
bank? No. Quite right, I never go to the 
tables. The word “gamble” makes me 
shudder. Is it because I am known as the 
Beautiful American ? No. I care only for the 
praise of those I love and not for a lot of 
questionable critics, who go over a woman’s 
good points as they do a horse at Tattersall’s. 
Is it because as I went out on the “ parterre ” 
with a book, and hid myself behind the 
shelter of some friendly palms in the garden 
of the Casino and a shadow fell upon my page, 
I looked up and saw — Jack ? 

Yes, you are right, “ dere ” old Diary. 
The guessing contest is closed and I tell you 
it is because my Jack has not forgotten me, 
that I am so very, very happy. 

As I recognized him he just said one word 
— “ Beatrix ” — then held out his arms, and 
the next thing I knew I was in them. For a 
whole minute we could not speak, then we sat 


SOCIETY *S PROT^:G^iE. 


133 


down side hy side with my hand lost in his 
(“ like two bourgeois ” I told him), and he ex- 
plained how he had been in Algiers, these long 
weary months that have seemed like years, 
traveling, trying to forget me. I pouted at 
that. 

No woman wants to be forgotten by a man 
that has once loved her. Jack had stopped on 
his way to Paris at Monte Carlo with the 
hopes he might forget in the whirl of gayety 
here. Looking over the hotel register he had 
seen my name. “ I saw you descend the steps 
of the hotel this morning, wearing what I 
suppose is the badge of your widowhood.” 

He can have heard nothing. I have on a 
white mull gown trimmed with black velvet 
ribbons, a white chiffon parasol with a jet 
handle. Yes, he thinks me in mourning for 
my husband. I cannot tell him the truth at 
present. My joy at meeting him shall be 
unalloyed. I know I am only planting 
another lie in a FooPs Paradise, for I answer, 
“ Yes, Gerald is dead.” 


134 


SOCIETY’S PROTMM. 


Is he not dead, dead to me, to society ? His 
ghost shall not rise Banquo-like at my feast. 
I shall be happy, if only to-day. 

“ Beatrix, I should be only a hypocrite if I 
attempted to say anything sympathetic. 1 
cannot. His death means a new lease of life 
for me, does it not, my own? You are free 
now to say the words you could not in wifely 
honor say the evening of the ball. Trix, say 
‘ J ohn I love you.’ ” 

1 place my hands in his and say with great 
tenderness “ John, I love you.” God knows I 
do. 

Monday Afternoon. 

Foe one week I have known what it means 
to be happy — happy in its fullest sense. 
For one week I have put the past behind me 
to live in this precious present. For one week 
Jack and I have spent hours together talking 
of the future. A future so bright, so dazzling, 
as to almost blind me. In it I see but one 
figure — Jack’s. 

We have just returned from a drive on the 


SOCIETY PROTM^JE. 


135 


“ Promenade des Anglaise.” I come to my 
rooms for a cup of tea and to change my 
gown for dinner. Jack has gone to the 
Westminster Hotel, not far from here. As 
yet we have not met any one we know. I am 
not sorry for that, as I do not wish to discover 
what my reception will be, even here, as a 
divorcee. 

No matter how innocent a woman may be, 
that name is an excuse for women secure in 
matrimonial fetters to raise their lorgnettes, 
not fitted with rose-clored glasses, and gaze at 
the woman who has had the misfortune to 
have her name appear in the courts. 

Gerald’s name is never spoken between 
Jack and me. I feel every hour that I should 
tell him my position. As we drove this 
afternoon he said, “Trix, I think you have 
good taste in dressing in white instead of 
gloomy, conventional black for your husband. 
These dainty, spotless gowns seem symbolic of 
your purity. I fancy” — flecking a fly off the 
horse’s ear with his whip — “ I should never have 


136 


SOCIETY'S PROTM^IE. 


fallen in love with a woman who had become 
notorious in any way — be it through her 
social position, her wealth, her wit, or her 
beauty, although I am coming very near when 
I am engaged to ‘La Belle Americaine,’ as 
they call you, with your beauty that has 
turned every head. I should never feel that a 
woman who shared her gifts with the world 
was wholly mine. I am selfish, perhaps, but I 
thank God I am to marry a woman whose 
fair name has never been fanned by the 
breath of suspicion, who lays down a name 
that is free from scandal, to take mine which 
is at least honorable.” 

His words burn like fire into my very 
heart. I feel now is the time to tell him. 
The wheels of the carriage on the asphalt 
seem to say “ Tell him, tell him.” I have 
nothing to confess, for I at least am innocent. 

“ Jack, I want to tell you something, just 
what my position is ” 

“Yes, dear, I understand; you are young 
and alone as far as the world can see. For 


SOCIETY'S PROTM^E. 


137 


that reason we might be justified in hastening 
our wedding. We can be married in Paris 
and then return to America, if you say so, in 
time for the Newport season, or we will take 
my yacht to Cannes, or spend our dolce fm 
niente days in some out of the way Spanish 
town, wherever you say, Trix ; only don’t keep 
me waiting too long,” he says tenderly. 

But Jack,” anxiously, “ do you not think it 
is almost too soon. Do you not think people 
might talk ? ” 

“ As yet neither of us have spoken of your 
husband’s death. You forget I do not know 
how long you have been a widow ? ’’ 

“ His death ? ” I faintly repeat. 

‘‘ Yes, but you are turning pale at the mere 
mention of the fact. We will speak no more 
of it, little girl. You have worn what I 
supposed was second mourning. I imagined it 
was some time ago. If the mention of his 
name pains you we will say no more about it. 
You look completely worn out. I will drive 
by this short cut to the hotel. You must go 
to your room and rest.” 


138 


SOCIETY PBOTMj^E, 


“Yes, I am worn out,” I say wearily. “I 
will try and rest ; but tell me, did you not read 
a paper after you left Paris ? Did you see the 
notice of Gerald’s death ? ” 

“No, after I went to Algiers with the 
thought I had lost you forever I took no 
interest in anything or anybody. The Paris 
papers were always in the reading-rooms of 
the hotels, but I did not want to run the risk 
of seeing that you were at the Marquis So-and- 
So’s house party, or that your landau was the 
center of attraction at the ‘ Grand Prix,’ or 
that the marvelously beautiful Lady Cannon 
was at Mrs. Mackay’s theatricals. Therefore, 
I did not see the obituary of your husband’s 
death. If I had, you know, I should have been 
indelicate enough to have come to you directly. 
We will talk of it later. Now go to your 
room.” 

His tone of authority is very precious to me. 
He helps me out of the cart. With a wave of 
his broad-brimmed sailor hat he leaves me on 
the steps of the hotel. I have come here to 


SOCIETY'S PROTMj^E. 


139 


my room to try and think out this terrible 
question : Would he have asked me to be his 
wife if he had known me to be a divorced 
woman — the wife of a felon ? In Paris he had 
said his honor, family, wealth, were nothing in 
comparison to his love for me. Did he mean 
that or was it the impulsive speech of a man 
who is in love with a woman who is beyond 
his reach ? He had spoken of my fair name. 
Are the husband’s sins to be visited upon the 
wife ? He is bound to hear of G erald’s impris- 
onment, I must be the first to tell him — tell 
him I am the divorced wife of a common 
criminal. 

What is the use of my trying to grasp at 
happiness ? As soon as I make a movement to 
touch it, it recedes from my grasp, as if my 
touch was pollution. To-night I shall tell 
Jack, no matter at what cost. Jack, I cannot 
give you up ! It was you that brought Love 
into the world for me. Do not say I must 
murder Love. My precious one, I would sacri- 
fice anything for you. Will you decide against 


140 


SOGJETT'8 PR0TM^:E. 


me ? God have pity on me and let me think. 
I am so miserable. 


Midnight. 

All is over. John Carhart has sealed his 
fate and mine with his own lips. I am calm 
now, quite calm enough to tell you all, my 
faithful gossip. Jack had called in time to 
drink his after-dinner colfee on the balcony 
with me. We watched the sun die his daily 
death. We saw the numberless lights from 
the Casino peep out into the tender darkness. 
We looked at the moon in her travail, as she 
shed her half- born light on Jack’s face, while 
mine was hid in the shadow of a spear-like 
palm. 

We laughed and chattered. Jack with the 
contentment of a man who has been given and 
appreciates God’s gifts — the contentment of a 
man who has the woman he loves by his side, 
safe in the belief that she will always remain 
there ; I, with the hysterical forced gayety of 
a woman who feels her life’s happiness is in 


SOaiETY*S PROTmEE. 


141 


the balance, and all may be lost if she does not 
play her part with infinite tact. 

“Jack, dear,” I say, as he draws his chair 
closer to mine, “ I want you to tell me of your 
sister.” 

“ Of our sister,” he corrects. “ I am glad 
you are interested in her. The poor girl has 
never known a mother’s care. I have tried to 
fill a parent’s place toward her, but there is 
so much about a young girl a man cannot 
understand. I feel she would be better for 
the influence of some good woman like you, 
Trix. Most of her days have been spent at 
boarding-school. As soon as I was of age I 
became her guardian, and her holidays have 
always been spent with me. She is a dear, 
affectionate little girl, and will give you a true 
sister’s love. Do you object to my lighting 
a cigarette? Thank you” — puff. “She fin- 
ishes next June, and will make her debut in 
the fall” — puff, puff. “You will have to do 
the matronly act and chaperone her when she 
comes out, sweetheart.” 


]42 


SOCIETY'S PROT^:G^:E. 


“ Yes ? And I presume I shall be deputized 
to get her a husband in her first season ? ” I 
ask, with a would-be airy laugh, something I 
have never been able to accomplish. 

“No,” with a frown; “we will keep Helen 
to ourselves for a few years. She is nothing 
more than a child, only seventeen, you know.” 

“ Of course. Monsieur Carhart, you have 
lived long enough in this naughty world to 
know that affairs of the heart can be reg- 
ulated.” 

“Trix, don’t talk like that, dearest,” re- 
proachfully. 

“ Silence ! how dare you be so rude as to in- 
terrupt me, sir ? Let us suppose a case. Turn 
around so I can look at you, so — Suppose 
Helen met a man she thought she loved, you 
consented to allow her to marry him, because 
you see no reason why you should refuse. If, 
after she became his wife, this man treated her 
cruelly, in fact, proved himself everything that 
was bad, the law divorces them, she after- 
ward meets the man to whom she gives the 


SOCIETY'S PROTJ^GJ^E. 


143 


love of her life, do you think she should marry 
again ? ” 

My heart almost stops beating as I wait for 
his answer. 

“]N'o,” slowly, “I do not think she should 
marry again while the man God joins her to 
still lives. That is on the woman’s side. I 
fancy a man would marry a woman he loved 
under any circumstances.” 

“Even if she was the divorced wife of a 
felon f ” 

“ Oh, come, Trix, what a morbid mood you 
are in to-night. Let’s talk of something more 
cheerful.” 

“ No, I want you to answer my question.” 

“Well, I hardly think a man would deliber- 
ately choose such a woman for his wife, not if 
he had much regard for his family name. 
Come, let us go and hear the music. ” 

“ Yes, in a minute. Jack, suppose I was a 
woman of those unfortunate circumstances, 
would you have asked me to marry you ? Ee- 
member, if 1 was the wife of a criminal instead 
of a ‘ bewitching widow ’ as you call me % ” 


144 


SOCIETY'S PROTJ^O^JE. 


Bah, how short sighted men are when they 
are in love ! fi 

“ What nonsense, you silly child,’’ taking my 
hand tenderly. “ No, Trix, 1 don’t believe I 
should have fallen in love with you. You see 
it is your very purity I worship. I have put 
you on a pedestal. Do you feel cold ? I saw 
you shiver. Put this chiffon scarf on those 
bare shoulders of yours.” 

“ Then you think no woman who has been 
the divorced wife of an unscrupulous man can 
be a good, pure woman ? ” 

“Hardly as bad as that. We have living 
proof to the contrary. But we are all influenced 
by our surroundings. A woman cannot live 
with such a man without having the bloom of 
the peach rubbed off.” 

Papa’s very words ! 

“ I think she palliates a wrong by living 
with him. She may try and live up to her 
standard of right and wrong, but some day she 
will give in, for the effort will be beyond her 
physical strength. By and by the step becomes 


SOCIETY'S protM^:e. 


145 


a run, the run a gallop, then conies the general 
moral smash-up and the trouble is, the pieces 
are absolutely good for nothing.” 

One moment and I try to realize all that 
speech means. Drawing my wraps around me, 
I pick up my fan. “ Thank you,” I say. “ I 
wanted to see just how a man would reason 
out a thing of that sort. The band is playing 
an entrancing waltz. Give your arm. Jack, I 
am ready ! ” 

The next day. 

They say our lives are what we make them. 
Mine has been one grand, glorious fiasco and I 
expect to fizzle out to the end. I have no 
patience with people who are so blind they 
cannot see the least glimmer of hope on the 
horizon of the future. I am trying to be 
utterly practical — as much as a woman in love 
can be. I have sat and tried to think over the 
future, to fancy in the most worldly manner 
what happiness it can possibly hold for me 
without John Carhart. As I feel now Jack’s 
love is as essential to my life as the very sun- 


146 


SOGIETT^S PROTM^JE. 


shine. Two more days I shall spend with him, 
forgetful of the past, indifferent to the future. 
In two days I will see if Jack can prove to me, 
unconsciously, that he could be happy married 
to a woman who has a stain upon her name. 
Poor Henri, I have not forgotten you — but 
love is so selfish. It will be a relief to write 
you a long letter, one that I know will be read 
in the kindliest manner. I shall tell him that 
Jack is with me, later on I shall tell him more, 
I have had enough of deceptions. 

3 A. M. 

The first day of the two has almost gone. 
Together Jack and I have spent the hours that 
have been swept by Father Time into the 
great space of the past. Never has Jack been 
so loving, so tender. The temptation has come 
to me a thousand times to tell him all. I would, 
if I thought he would be happy married to me, 
but the thought that some day he might regret 
it would kill me, and our children — would he not 
regret it for their sake ? Jack, my darling we 
must part, and this time, forever. 


SOCIETY^ 8 PROTMj^E, 


147 


The next morning. 

Will I have sufficient strength to carry out 
my plan ? Jack’s very love for me seems to 
make it harder. He has just left me with the 
words, “ I want you to promise that this time 
next month you will be my wife.” 

I reply wistfully, “ Let me answer you to- 
morrow ! ” He has left satisfied. 


As I sat in the shade of the awnings after 
dejeuner^ dreamily looking at the Mediter- 
ranean that seemed like a cool azure bed 
(almost wishing my body might be pillowed 
there), watching the people who moved 
along the promenade — happy, careless, morose 
and reckless — many of them turned to look 
at me and their lips say, “ La Belle 

Americaine ; ” then as some one tells 

of the scandal of my life they stare 

again. I was trying to imagine what the 
world would say if “ La Belle ” was a cold, 
perhaps repulsive, lump of clay. My reverie 


148 


SOGIETT^a protMj^b, 


is abruptly ended by a great, fragrant bunch 
of roses thrown into my lap. Of course it is 
Jack. He generally heralds his approach in 
some such fashion. 

“Good morning; you look triste^ sweet- 
heart,” he says in his hearty, cheerful voice. 

“ Would you have me look anything else, 
when you are not with me?” I demanded 
smilingly. Then add, “How lovely these 
flowers are.” 

“ I thought so too, until I compared them 
with your beauty, but you have the faculty of 
making everything and every one that you 
come in contact with look commonplace.” 

“ Are you trying to explain why people 
avoid me?” 

“ That is like a woman. Pay her a compli- 
ment and she immediately asks you what 
sinister purpose you had in doing so. Do not 
let us quarrel. Do you care to go to the 
pigeon match? Every one is going,” Jack 
says good-humoredly. 

“ Thank you, and for that reason let us stay 


SOCIETY'S PROTJ^O^JE. 


149 


here.” I knew I could not play my part if 
we went among a crowd of people, and I 
shared Jack’s attention with some one else. 
No, what little time we have together I want 
to be away from the world. Others may 
claim him after I have gone, never to see his 
bonny face again. It was so hard to say 
good-by to him. “ Jack,” I say, “ I shall leave 
you this afternoon for a few hours ; will you 
promise me you will come back by half-past 
eight this evening — not a minute earlier or 
later ? ” 

“Certainly, although you are not very 
complimentary not to want to see me as soon 
as I can get back ! Can we not dine to- 
gether ? ” 

“ No ! Forgive me this time, I want to go 
into Nice to buy a couple of trinkets to send 
home to mamma. Why do you not go for 
a ride? You must not go with me, for I hate 
to have a man around while I am shopping. 
By the way, give me that miniature of my- 
self. I want to have turquoise set around it 


150 


80GIETY^8 FROTAqAe. 


instead of pearls ; they are tears. I will take 
it to the jeweler’s this afternoon.” 

“ It suits me as it is — but just as you please, 
little girl.” 

“Good-by, Jack; kiss me, dear.” 

“Why, sweetheart, what is the matter. 
You are only going as far asMce, and you act 
as if you were off for a journey to the moon. 
Come, you are feeling ‘ blue.’ Will you give 
me the answer to-day you promised me ? ” 

“Yes, you shall have it when I return,” I 
say, with an effort to keep back the tears. 

As he kisses my breath away, he says, 
“ Don’t be hard on me, Trix.” 

Those are his last words to me. With a 
passionate embrace he has left me, never to 
return. I watch him until he is hid by the 
courtyard. I go to my room, and with a 
sob I realize that all is over. We have parted 
forever. 


SOCIETY'S PROTM^IE. 


151 


Marie has packed my trunks. W e return to 
Paris by the seven o’clock express. I have 
written this note for him ; 

‘‘Jack : — Do not think harshly of me when 
you find I have left you. W e can never marry, 
for the woman I believe you love is the 
divorced wife of a felon. Gerald is in Aus 
tralia, convicted of forgery. Can you under- 
stand what it cost me to tell you this ? Had I 
told you before, I know, out of the nobility of 
your nature, you would still have wished to 
make me your wife ; but the day would come 
when you would have regretted having wed a 
woman with a name tainted as mine has been 
by Mm. Go back to America to your sister. 
Sne needs you. Look upon me only as an 
incident in your happy life — happy until I 
brought you misery. Kemember me only as a 
woman who gave you her passionate adoration, 
who loves you better than her own happiness, 
and therefore leaves you only because she 
would not put a blot on your life. If you 
would have me believe you love me, do not try 
to find me. This letter will become nothing 
but a blank sheet shortly after you have read 
it. I asked for my picture, for you must have 
nothing tangible as a souvenir. Think kindly 
of Beatrix.” 

To Gerald I gave the weak affection of a 


152 


80CIETT*8 PEOTM^iE. 


young girl. To Jack a woman’s love. Will 
Henri accept my life ? 

Paris^ December l^th, 189-. 
To-day I became the wife of Henri Letoire. 


A MODERN SINNER. 




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A MODERN SINNER. 


CHAPTER 1. 

** Under the faces are hearts you know.” 

“ She stands as straight as a church steeple 
without a debt on it, as J ames would say,” re- 
marks Mrs. Dolly Westervelt, who generally 
finishes her sentences with the afterthought, 
“ as James would say,” which in point of fact 
is ludicrous, as it is well known to the Baronne 
Yildimarre Yitioz, and Mrs. Dolly’s numerous 
acquaintances, that James Westervelt never 
does say anything, when in his wife’s com- 
pany — or in any one else’s, but then no one ever 
takes Mrs. Dolly seriously, except herself. A 
thinking public did not stand sponsor at Mrs. 
Dolly’s christening. A greater misnomer 
could never have been inflicted on a two 
months’ old baby. Thirty-three years ago 


156 


A MODERN SINNER. 


there might have been a doll-like suggestion 
about her personality, but at the present time 
the liveliest imagination could not conjure up 
a comparison that would be more apt than to 

she resembled one of those wooden Ger- 
man dolls that once figured in our childish 
nightmare. Her face had the same square 
look, her joints a certain creaky movement not 
unlike those imported monstrosities. The only 
thing about her that suggested femininity was 
the remarkably alert way in which she showed 
she had complete command of her conversa- 
tional powers. 

She is an elongated edition de luxe of 
Jeanne d’Arc ! Beautiful, to be sure, but chut! 
she is too heavy ! • ’ and the Kussian diplomat’s 
widow rolls the last word out with a gutteral 
“ h ” that is almost grotesque, coming from so 
dainty a throat. 

In complete contrast is the Baronne Yitioz ; 
a cosmopolite from the tip of her correct 
coiffure (her own) to the hem of her skirt, 
which entangles men’s hearts in its lace where- 


A MODERN SINNER. 


157 


ever she moves with a well frou-frou that 
emits a perfume as subtle as the baronne’s 
glances. Mrs. Dolly is the exclamation point ; 
the baronne the period in the punctuation of 
Life’s page. The mechanical vivacity of one is 
counteracted by the thoroughbred repose of 
the other. At present they are as intimate as 
women who move in the same social atmos- 
phere can be. In Continental cities the 
Baronne Yitioz has breathed the rarer tem- 
perature of Faubourgs and the courts, and she 
has the faculty of growing prettier and more 
dashing at whatever spot she makes up her 
mind to drop her forty-seven trunks and two 
maids. Mrs. Dolly and she came to the con- 
clusion they wanted mountain air, in October, 
so they are rusticating — if rusticating means 
wearing the airiest of toilettes.^ and sitting with 
one’s dearest friend, and De Maupassant’s 
latest, on the porch of a l!^ew Hampshire coun- 
try hotel— so they rusticate and are happy, as 
the baronne says smilingly, “ To be frank with 
you, Dolly, I am interested in the girl. If 


158 


A MOJ)MIlAr SINNER. 


one might rid her of that melodramatic look, 
which seems part of her make-up, she might be 
a wonderfully attractive woman. INTow, men 
would admire her for her physical beauty — it 
would be unfortunate to have her reign so 
short-lived. She has magnetism, but it is dor- 
mant. She does not understand the use of her 
power. I should like to see her fascinate 
more with the brain, and less with the eye. 
Then she would be adorable, at present she is 
— deplorable,” and the baronne taps the toe 
of her irreproachably clad foot impatiently. 

‘‘Yildimarre, are you jealous of the girl’s 
beauty — or are you in search of a new sensa- 
tion?” Mrs. Dolly’s tone is severe, as she 
looks up from the mysteries of her embroi- 
dery. 

“ IS'either,” and the Kussian accent is more 
noticeable as she launches forth her curt 
reply. 

“Explain,” suggests Mrs. Dolly, with en- 
couragement in her tone. 

“ merci. Explanations are a bore, and 




159 


detail as sure a sign of age as wrinkles. I only 
make the brief statement — I am interested in 
Miss Exeter. She is a study in pastels. Most 
women are impressions in ‘ black and white ; ’ 
no tint to give them variety ! Sara Exeter has 
a nature that is brilliantly colored. E’ature 
studied in her case, and gave the softness 

of a crayon. I pity the girl, for she has a pas- 
sionate temperament that craves admiration. 
Fancy what life in a narrow-minded country 
town, that is snuggled like a sleepy child 
among these hills, must be to a girl with such 
a disposition.” The baronne’s mouth has a 
pathetic droop. “ I rebelled against the re- 
straint of a convent life,” she says, “ but I 
fear an American girl must feel like a soldier 
on ‘ parole.’ Her honor keeps her from tak- 
ing the fun we foreigners would steal. We 
have the check rein of parental authority; 
you American women have the curb of self- 
respect.” 

“ My dear Yildimarre, you speak of a type, 
but you think of Miss Exeter ! ” 


160 


A MODERN SINNER. 


‘‘ Which is at fault, my English or my con- 
victions ? ” demands the baronne, defiantly. 

“ Both,” with decision. 

Mon Dieu! You are cruel. Da! There 
is your brother,” as an athletic-looking man of 
thirty, with hair prematurely gray on the tem- 
ples, throws himself from a foam-flecked cob 
at the steps of the porch. 

“ Come to my rescue, Mr. Grerome ! Save 
me from your sister’s brusqueness,” pleads the 
baronne, with a piquant gesture of her be- 
jeweled hands. 

“ I am always ready to take up the cudgels 
in your behalf, baronne, even against my own 
flesh and blood,” and Kichard Gerome swings 
himself into a low chair at her side. 

“ You are so warm, you are in no condition 
to take up the cudgels in any one’s behalf. 
Such a hot, dusty day for a ride ! Take my 
fan.” 'No one could have withstood the sym- 
pathetic intonation in the baronne’s musical 
voice — at least Kichard Gerome could not. 

“ You make the trip twice blessed with your 


A MODBRJsr smjurm. 


161 


quality of mercy, baronne! I rode over to 
Hanover with the novel you spoke of,” putting 
it on her lap. “ Take back your fan ; it is as 
light as a woman’s love.” 

‘‘ Come, you are too good-looking to be 
cynical, Kichard ! That was bad — that speech 
— as inartistic as a debutantes small talk. Ho 
matter, it is said. Why not say as irresponsi- 
ble as a man’s love ! ” The baronne turns, 
lightly laughing, from the brother to Mrs. 
Westervelt, who is interested in this pretty 
comedy. Hext to herself, Dolly Westervelt 
loves her half-brother. It is the wish of her 
heart to see him and the wealthy Eussian 
tangled together in matrimony’s toils. Think- 
ing they are in a mood to be left alone, she 
moves toward the doorway. 

“ Our boniface can do two things well — kill 
chickens and make champagne cocktails. 
Shall I order you both a cocktail — or root 
beer ? ” 

‘‘You go from the sublime to the ridiculous. 
You forget you are in an eastern hamlet, not 


162 A MODERN SINNER. 

at Del’s — so make it a cobbler ! ” suggests her 
brother as she disappears in the doorway. 

“IS'ow the obstacle has vanished, let me 
defend you. What were you quarreling 
about ? ” turning to his companion. 

“We were not quarreling. I never do, on 
principle ! Tell me if you consider Miss 
Exeter a type or an exception of the American 
girl!” 

“ Perhaps she is a happy combination of 
both!” 

“ You are too conservative. For that 
reason and the fact you are handsome I could 
not fall in love with you. They are qualities 
I admire in a friend — but detest in a lover.” 

“ Have I ever aspired to the latter distinc- 
tion?” laughing. 

“ Dick, you are rude,” reproachfully. 

“Forgive me, Yildimarre,” softly — with a 
sudden change of voice and attitude. “ Here 
comes the modern Hebe,” as Mrs. Wester velt 
makes her appearance, followed by a waiter. 
“ I fear those were ordered before I came 
Dolly!” 


A MODERN SINNER. 


163 


“ Don’t ask questions ; here are the cob- 
blers,” taking the unoccupied seat. 

“ Yildimarre, how have you progressed in 
your search for the American woman ? ” 

“ In retrogressive ascendency ; Kichard tells 
me nothing about Miss Exeter I want to 
know,” with a moue. 

“ I know nothing, except she is very charm- 
ing, adores her father, has an illiterate old aunt 
(who condescends to let us board here) and 
studies art with a humpback artist ! ” 

“ All of which we knew before ! ” 

“ My dear Dolly, when will the day come 
when I could give you information? But 
seriously, why are you so interested in the 
girl, baronne?” 

“ I intend to take her back toK’ew York 
I with me and present her as my friend. Her 
nature puzzles me, and I want to develop it and 
see the result.” 

“ Turn your house into a social incubator, as 
James would say ! ” 

“ Possibly. I intend to make a fascinating 


164 


A MODERN SINNER. 


woman of Sara Exeter. I shall have good raw 
material. She is intelligent — artistic in ap- 
pearance and nature. Yoila ! what more can 
I ask?” 

“ What is your motive in doing this, 
baronne ? ” Kichard Gerome lazily questions. 

‘‘ That remains to be seen ! ” 

“ But will she leave her father ? ” 

“ I shall find that out to-night. My invita- 
tation will not extend to the major, altho’ he 
is charming when he is sober, but that is so 
seldom I cannot run the chance.” 

“ Baronne, do you not fear your ‘ study ’ will 
spoil in transplanting ? ” 

“ Mon cher., say what you mean. You fear 
this orchid will not stand the hothouse of con- 
ventional society. She will take naturally to 
it. She has traveled some, you know, and has 
been several years at school in Boston. This 
morning she told me she fully intended to fol- 
low art as a profession, and when I asked her 
if she ever expected ‘ to catch up to it,’ she took 
me an serieux and said ‘ in time.’ Imagine a 


A MODBUN SINNEB. 


165 


girl of nineteen, as beautiful as she is, forced to 
sit before a yard of canvas and paint impossi* 
ble cows — or flowers — besides, she has not an 
atom of talent. Her method is — h-r-r — 
frightful ! It makes my blood run ! ” 

“ Ha, ha, Yildimarre, you are mixing your 
physical and rhetorical convulsions. Your 
flesh creeps — ” corrects Mrs. Dolly. 

“ My flesh will not creep ! it is a fast color 
for it — washes. Kichard,tell me, is that what 
you call an American joke ? ” 

“ As I hear that it is seldom that anything, 
even jokes can leave Kussia, once they are there, 
I suppose we must acknowledge it,” replies Mr. 
Gerome with a laugh — “ but look ; ” pointing 
down the dusty road, “ speaking of angels one 
hears the fluttering of their gowns. Here 
comes your experiment,” as Sara Exeter with 
a rose-colored parasol held above her sun- 
kissed curls comes in sight. As the girl, with 
the glint of the golden-rod in her hair and the 
tinge of the sumach on her cheeks, walks 
briskly up the road with the swinging step of 


166 


A MODERN' SINNER. 


a lithe, healthy creature, her eyes, like pieces 
of polished tortoise-shell, encounter the gaze of 
the occupants of the porch. It is no simple 
comitvY ingenue that returns their look, but a 
woman whose step and deportment carry a 
conviction and potent strength. 

“ If she was only more chic ! ” sighs the 
baronne. 

“ She is too tall,” comments Mrs. Dolly. 

“By Jove, she is a ‘stunner.’ You women 
‘damn her with faint praise’” — volunteers 
Eichard Gerome. 

“ Dolly, do you hear that ? But here she is ; 
I’ll tell her to join us ! ” 

“ Miss Exeter,” raising Tier voice, “come and 
wake us up ; we are dying from the ennui of 
one another’s society ! ” 

“You certainly look gay enough,” answers 
the young woman with a smile, that lit up her 
face until it was radiant. 

^^Da! Do not look so coldly at those 
glasses. You have almost frapped the con- 
tents,” then, noting the girl’s embarrassment : 


A MODBIiJV SINJSTBR, 


167 


“ Forgive me, and let Mr. Gerome order you 
something to drink.” 

“ Thank you, no ; it is almost time for me to 
dress for dinner,” speaking in a languid tone, 
that bespoke weariness, either physical or 
mental. 

“ Yraiment ! it is almost six! But do not 
desert us; we return home on Monday, you 
know ! ” 

“IS'o, I did not know that. Why do you 
leave so soon ? ” demands the girl with interest, 
and a swift look at Kichard Gerome. 

“ Social demands ! Do you envy us our 
return to the city ? ” 

‘‘ Oh, so much,” with a convulsive clasp of 
her hand. “ I was in ^N'ew York when a small 
girl. Possibly my father and I may go there 
this fall, but” — and the old air of weariness 
returned — “ I doubt it. I suppose I can study 
art as well here as there ! ” 

“ Do you like your profession. Miss Exeter ? ” 
demanded Mrs. Westervelt, with a tinge of com 
descension in her manner. 


168 


A MODBUJV SINIfER. 


“ I loathe it,” quietly. 

“ Then why study it ? ” 

“ Because I wish to earn my own living,” 
defiantly. 

‘‘Dolly,” said Kichard Gerome, deprecat- 
ingly, “ I fear Miss Exeter will think you over 
interested ! ” 

Before his sister could make the retort 
courteous, the baronne had tactfully steered 
the conversation into a safer quarter. “ Miss 
Exeter, when you come to Kew York, I hope 
to have the pleasure of entertaining you and 
your father. Possibly we shall have a coaching 
party, and go through the state. In that case, 
I shall ask you to join us.” The baronne 
gives the girl the idea that she will confer a 
great favor if she accepts. It is a way of the 
baronne’s. 

“ I should love it above all things ” — then as 
her eyes met Kichard Gerome’s — “ but I fear 
I cannot accept. I think I hear my aunt’s 
voice calling now. Will you kindly excuse 
me?” 


A MODBUJV' SINNER. 


160 


Walking away from the group she passes her 
aunt in the hall. With “ I’ll be down directly 
Aunt Deborah,” she runs swiftly up the stairs, 
then on to the second floor. Finishing the 
third flight she goes to her room. As she 
opens the door the hot air almost stifles her. A 
yellow pine bedstead, with wonderfully varie- 
gated fruits growing from branch decorating 
the headboard, a washstand to match, with a 
toilette set of china in imitation marble, and 
two horse-hair chairs comprise the furniture. 
The narrow mantelpiece is ornamented with 
wax flowers in a glass case with “ in memory 
of Georgie ” in lurid lettering, a work-box of 
sea-shells, and a china lamp. The furnishings 
of the room are incongruous with the walls, 
which are lined with plaster casts, crayon 
sketches, water colors, and pen-and-ink work ; 
all more or less unflnished. The artist has 
drawn them with accuracy, with a faithfulness 
to detail that is almost painful, but there is not 
a sketch that has a touch of life or movement. 
With the exception of one it is readily seen 
they are all by the same hand. 


170 


A MODERN SINNER. 


A crayon sketch is pinned to the wall, as the 
last rays of the afternoon sun strike it. It is a 
portrait, evidently powerfully, but roughly 
drawn — by a master hand. A vigor and dash 
is in it as if the artist was a student of genre. 
The subject is a man of possibly forty, a strong 
face, but as free from a line of beauty as a 
Hindoo idol. The nose is irregular and coarse, 
the eyes small and piercing, while the mouth 
is entirely hid by a heavy beard. One of the 
shoulders is higher than the other, while the 
arms are out of proportion, the hands are 
knotted at the joints, and the legs are twisted. 
The picture is almost fascinating in its nau- 
seating repulsiveness. One involuntarily blames 
the artist for posing his model in so repugnant 
an attitude. Hot a defect has been hid or 
softened. The young woman stands before 
the picture, taking in every line of its glaring 
ugliness. 

“ My God, why did you give me my sight if 
it was to see this !.” with a shudder. Throw- 
ing herself on the floor she leans her chin on 


A MODERN SINNER. 


171 


the window sill as she looks out into the 
deepening twilight. 

“Would I dare accept the baronne’s invita- 
tion ? ” she questions aloud. “ Or will he pre- 
vent me ? Perhaps not when I tell him it is 
for my happiness. Bah! happiness! That 
word only exists in the category of pretty 
sounds ! Why can I not make him hate me as 
much as I have made him love me! Would 
my life be any different then ? Why did God 
give me such a hard, repellant heart ? What 
would it mean if I could get away from this 
place ? I might escape him hut not his influ- 
ence. Who was that? ” as she strains her eyes 
to look into the fast gathering gloom. “ It is 
Mr. Gerome’s voice.” She holds her breath as 
she hears him say, “ Fancy what a sensation 
that girl will create with her animal spirits 
and wonderful physique among our chalked 
and painted society girls ! What a tid-bit she 
will prove for the epicurean palate of dear cen- 
sorious Madam Grundy ” — the voice was silent, 
as if it had turned the corner of the piazza. 


172 


A MODERN SINNER. 


Eaising herself from her cramped position 
Sara Exeter stood with quivering lips and a 
trembling hand pressed against her heaving 
breast. “ "What made me decline the baronne’s 
invitation this afternoon ? Was it because I 
thought I saw a look of appeal in his eyes ? 
What a coward I am^ — I am afraid of myself.’’ 
Lighting a candle she walks over to the 
crayon portrait, as the flickerings of the flame 
fell upon it. Shall I go to Eew York ? ” she 
asks slowly — “Yes.” Was it destiny that 
made her answer her question in the affirma- 
tive ? With almost nervous haste she takes a 
gown from the closet — almost breathlessly she 
dresses and runs quickly down the stairs to be 
taken to task for her tardiness by her aunt. 
As she comes from the dining-room on to the 
porch, the baronne puts her arm kindly 
around the girl’s waist. “ Miss Exeter, I want 
you to retract your refusal of my invitation 
and say you will leave with us when we go on 
Monday.” As the girl hesitates she adds 
kindly, “ Monsieur your father is quite willing 


A MODERN SINNER. 


173 


it should be so. Da ! is that settled ? ” Sara 
is in a pliant, emotional state — and accepts. 
Excusing herself to the baronne she creeps 
out into the darkness. At the foot of the path 
leading from the house she sees a patch of 
white — it proves to be Eichard Gerome m 
evening clothes. 

“ Miss Exeter, I have just thrown away a 
Havana in hopes I could replace it with the 
pleasure of escorting — where ? ” 

“ Thank you,’’ with embarrassment. “ I am 
only going to the end of the village — I am 
quite used to walking alone at night — I heard 
the baronne inquiring for you, Mr. Gerome — 
she wanted to have a game of billiards with 
you.” 

“ Miss Exeter, that is a very feeble excuse to 
rid yourself of me.” 

“I am not trying to do that — but — ” lamely. 

“ But you do not want me. If I promise to 
take myself off, will you go for a ride with me 
to-morrow ? It will be our last day here.” 

“ With pleasure. But I am going to return 
to the city with the baronne ! ” 


174 


A MODERN SINNER. 


“Eeally! That is charming. "We will talk 
over your anticipated visit to-morrow, for I 
see you are in a hurry to be off, only before 
you leave assure me you are not going to meet 
a more favored admirer,” gayly. 

Fortunately it is too dark for him to see the 
hot flush that rises to his companion’s face. 

“ Decidedly not ! It is a visit of charity — good 
night,” and she walks quickly down the road 
as if accustomed to the way, while Eichard 
Gerome returns to the house. Stopping be- 
side the bridge that is a link between the two 
villages she calls softly, “ Gilbert ! ” as she hears 
an irregular step as if the approaching traveler 
was lame. As the moon rises above the tops 
of the mountains it throws its light on Sara 
Exeter’s face, which has a tight-drawn line 
around the mouth — and on the figure of a man 
— a cripple. 


\ 


A MODERN SINNER. 


175 


CHAPTER 11. 

“A woman’s strength is most potent when robed in 
gentleness. ” — Lamartine. 

In creating Gilbert Stamboul Providence 
had cast him in a mold that was one perfect 
imperfection. The law of recompense had 
been observed, for genius as an artist was his 
— not talent, which is imitative, but genius^ 
which is creative. Men overlooked his bodily 
defects, and envied him his success; women 
recoiled from his ghoulish form, for he did not 
appeal to the imagination. He charmed the 
intellect while he disgusted the senses. 

StambouPs love of art was like that for 
femininity — intense. A woman’s scent bottle, a 
slipper, a string of beads, would give him a 
strange pleasure, but no woman had ever 
looked upon him with favor. When Hew York 
and Paris had held its breath with wonder at 


176 


A MODERN SINNER. 


the paintings that appeared from time to time 
in their exhibitions, with the inoffensive initials 
of “ G. S.,” curiosity was fed until it demanded 
the artist in person. Gilbert Stamboul and his 
work became the fad in New York. Fair, frolic- 
some, frivolous femininity flocked to his studio ; 
it admired his tawny tapestries ; it raved over 
his wonderfully wrought ivories ; it fingered 
his old brocades; it sniffed the burning of 
odorous incense; it nibbled at his pates; it 
sipped his champagne ; it marveled at the cul- 
ture of the artist’s mind, it shuddered at the 
malformation of his body. The praise of his 
genius was sincere, the praise of the man was 
charmingly artificial. Stranger tales of his life 
were told ; they were either confirmed or 
denied, but his receptions were more of a suc- 
cess when the host was absent. Society tried 
to forget then, that the wonderful conceptions 
that hung on the green copper lacquer walls, 
had been the work of an ungainly, distorted 
hand — ^it forgot eloquence lay in his very 
finger tips. His art was spiritually wedded 
to grace, and beauty was the offspring. 


A MODERN SINNER. 


177 


Two years ago he had torn himself from his 
half-Bohemian, half- conventional life in New 
York, and bade his luxurious mistress, Art, a 
short farewell, to woo rest along the quiet 
shores of the Connecticut — torn himself away 
with the understanding that not a brush or 
pigment should he touch until his return. The 
plainer we are in features, the less temptations 
we have, and one May morning Gilbert Stam- 
boul was tempted beyond himself. 

Beneath an apple tree that shed its full- 
bloom fragrance like a spring benediction, 
stands a graceful girlish figure, leaning against 
the tree with winsome abandon. The shadows 
flit across the fair face as if reluctant to leave 
it, the blossoms rest on the hair, as if they 
stretched out flowery arms to nestle in the 
golden tresses. Her white gown clings to her 
voung form with the promise of womanhood, 
with a sinuous grace. With true artistic appre- 
ciation Gilbert drinks in the beauties of the 
tantalizing tableau; then fearful that those 
eyes of hers, like brilliant agates, will change 


178 


A MODERN SINNER. 




their expression of animation to one of dismay, 
he creeps behind the trunk of a fatherly oak, 
but the footstep is heavy and the twigs crush 
beneath it. 

“ Aunt Deborah, is that you ? ” the girl calls 
gayly, turning her face in the artist’s direction, 
then with a short run she is almost at his side. 
It is the first woman that has looked into his 
face, and does not turn from it in disgust. 
There is not even the expression of surprise. 
The shadows beneath the eyes tell him she 
is blind. 

“ Who is there ? ” she demands, groping with 
her hands. 

“ A stranger,” a voice replies, with wonder- 
ful power and sweetness. 

“ Are you staying at the hotel ? ” 

“Yes, 1 only arrived yesterday. Are you 
also one of the guests ? ” 

“ IS’o, my aunt is the proprietress.” 

“ Indeed, then I have had the pleasure of 
meeting your father. Major Exeter.” 

“Yes, that is papa’s name, and who are 
you ? ” 


A MODERN SINNER. 


179 


“ Gilbert Stamboul, of New York.” 

“ Are you young ? your voice sounds so.” 

“No, altho’ everything is comparative — I 
am not young — I am forty and an artist.” It 
gives him certain grim pleasure to vouch this 
information, to tell this girl his name, his oc- 
cupation, knowing it means no more to her 
than if he said he was John Smith, a 
tanner. 

“ Yes, I knew you were drawing.” 

His pencil is suspended, he looks from the 
paper he has been rapidly sketching on. 

“ How did you know that ? ” 

“ I heard the pencil grit on the paper. Are 
you sketching me ? ” 

“Yes, but why do you ask?” 

“Because I did not think you would be 
stupid enough to sketch a landscape, when you 
have a figure you can draw. I have not been 
blind very long, only a year, and I try to rec- 
ollect my friends as they were when I last 
saw them. Their surroundings amount to 
nothing with me.” And thus they talk with 


180 


A MODERN SINNER. 


the subtle understanding that always exists 
between the afflicted. That chance meeting 
was but the beginning of many others. Gilbert 
soon discovered it would be an easy matter to 
arrange sittings so he might paint Sara Exeter’s 
portrait. Her aunt, with vulgar offlciousness, 
readily agreed her niece might sit, when he 
promised her a duplicate of the picture. The 
artist’s fame was unknown to her — he had 
come at the beginning of the season, his meals 
were served in his rooms — so it was an easy 
matter to keep his name from the idle gossip 
of the summer hotel. 

As soon as the sittings were arranged, he 
sent to the city for his painting paraphernalia, 
and the portrait was commenced. They were 
chaperoned in a dilatory manner by the aunt, 
Mrs. Laurel. She would put in her head as 
she passed from the linen closet, with a “ How 
are you getting on, Mr. Stamboul ? ” or she 
would stop a moment with a jar of preserves 
in her arms to give the information that “ Sara 
looked feverish,” all of which was taken by 


A MODERN SINNER. 


181 


the artist and his subject with good-natured 
tolerance. 

Major Exeter, who had been known to have 
graduated from West Point, had gone to Fort 
Leavenworth with his motherless daughter, 
and had persuaded the government they had 
sufficient reason to discharge him on half-pay. 
Coming East he had placed her in school, and 
had himself wandered around in a perfunctory 
sort of a way, chasing some financial bubble 
that would develop into a balloon of success 
some day. A year ago, he had drawn himself 
up with a halt when he was told his young 
daughter was blind. He then took her to his 
sister’s home, while he was content to hang 
around the post office, with his chair tilted 
against the wall, and tell army stories to a 
gaping crowd, who, if they had their way 
would have made the major a general. But 
then they were not the class that ruled the 
United States. Of the major it was said by his 
enemies — and he had few — that he screamed 
when the eagle was hoarse. He was a great 


182 


A MODBBJSr SmNER. 


soldier— in theory. The care of his daughter 
was accepted in the same irresponsible manner 
as he had accepted every other duty that had 
come to him in life. He was content to let 
her have her own way — and, luckily for the 
girl, few temptations had been placed in her 
path in life that her own good sense had not 
steered her clear of. All except one — but the 
gentleness of her nature, rather than her in- 
clinations, had caused her to step aside. 

As the portrait was near completion, she sat 
one late afternoon in the improvised studio, 
with her gown of gray chiffon in harmony 
with the richly embroidered stuffs that lay 
around her in almost eastern luxury, while the 
twilight lazily faded the colors till all seemed 
a neutral tint. She was thinking somewhat 
sadly that those pleasant afternoons would 
soon be over. Was she beginning to care for 
the artist in spite of the deformity that God 
has closed her eyes to ? Or was it because no 
one had impressed his personality upon her, 
and she had pictured him with a grace of 


A MODERN SINNER 


183 


figure and feature that had never been his ? 
Perhaps it was his musical voice had charmed 
her ear. Perhaps it was because he had come 
into her life and enlarged the horizon of her 
thoughts. And he, had he not watched this 
young girl broaden under his influence ? Had 
he not caused new sensations to picture them- 
selves on her flower-like face. Had he not 
watched with breathless joy the expression of 
affection and gentleness that leaped into her 
sightless eyes at his approach ? 

He would sometimes sit for hours, hoping 
but not daring to acknowledge to himself that 
this girl cared for him. It seemed a psycho- 
logical phenomenan which his paralyzed 
faculties could not appreciate. One more 
stroke to the name in the corner and the por- 
trait is finished. He looks at the breathing, 
pulsing, radiant beauty of the girl, then at the 
“counterfeit presentment” on the easel, and 
acknowledges to himself, with a feeling of joy 
and exultation, that he never knew before of 
what he was capable. The world would call 


184 


A MODERN SINNER. 


him a second Keynolds. Bah, his previous 
work was insignificantly dwarfed in compari- 
son with this creation. Would it be base, 
cruel, to tell her that her presence has been a 
divine inspiration ; that in every stroke of the 
brush his very soul had found utterance ? 

“ Mr. Stamboul,” she questions, “ have you 
decided what you will call it ? ” 

Portrait of a girl seventeen.” 

‘‘And you take it to IS'ew York to-morrow?” 

“Yes.” 

Her look of disappointment thrilled him 
with an exquisite pleasure. This was the first 
woman since his mother’s death who was suf- 
ficiently interested in him to feel pain or glad- 
ness in his coming or going. 

“ Miss Exeter, I have spent more time here 
than I could well afford. You know it is not 
only the picture that interests me, it was the 
subject that has kept me.” 

“ Yes,” smilingly. 

“ I thought I saw a look of regret in your 
face when I told you I must leave.” 


A SmN-ER, 


185 


I am mdeed sorry.” 

‘‘ Do not say that word. Pity is the only 
emotion I have ever raised in a woman.” The 
words now come fast and passionately. “ Shall 
I tell you that you are the first woman that 
has ever treated me with sincere kindness ? I 
have told you I was lame, but you do not know 
that if those eyes, which God has taken the 
sight from, could see, you would be shocked by 
my -ugliness. Perhaps he has thrown us 
together, perhaps he has given you this terrible 
affliction so that you could learn to care for 
me, and not to see the misshapen shell that 
holds my soul. Sara, tell me you have more 
than pity for me ? ” 

“Mr. Stamboul, no one that has so kind a 
heart, so sweet a voice, could have a body such 
as you describe. You are only testing my 
love” — then coloring painfully as she sees she 
has betrayed herself, she adds, “ yes, love.” 

With a passion of adoration in his voice he 
whispers, “ Sara, I have given you a love such 
as no woman has received before.” He has for- 


186 


A MODERN SINNER. 


gotten he is a cripple — he only knows he is a 
man. Sara, I am content to have no other 
recompense in this world, as long as the words 
you have uttered ring in my ears.” Then bit- 
terly, “I have fame, wealth, but what am 1 
that I would dare ask you to be my wife ? In 
other men it would be a compliment, in me it 
is an insult to mention it, although Heaven 
knows I do not mean it as such. If out of the 
gentleness of your nature, you might some day 
marry me, the world would scorn you, and 
blame me for taking advantage of your in- 
nocence — of your affliction.” 

“And if I did not care for the world’s verdict, 
what then?” 

“ Hush, Sara, you are tempting me with so 
sweet a temptation, that it is not in the power of 
man to resist. Leave me, my child, and forget 
the words you have uttered out of the kind- 
ness of your heart — leave me or my reason 
will give way.” Gently he takes her little 
hand, which is like cool ivory, and leads her to 
the door. He has only given her his finger 


A MODERN SINNER. 


187 


tips, he shrinks from wounding her sensibility 
by letting her feel his distorted fingers. 

The next day he left her without saying 
good-by, only a note to say that he would 
soon return. He had taken the portrait that 
he had said he was to exhibit at the spring 
opening of the American Art Association, 
with him. A week went by, and still it 
remained at his rooms at the “ Dakota.” At 
last he came to the conclusion that he would 
not part with it. Why should the world gaze 
on the only thing that was his ? It was not a 
question of money. Why should a staring 
crowd drink in the beauties of the woman he 
loved ? In a fever of impatience, he painted a 
landscape, “A bit of the Connecticut, Ho. 167” 
the catalogue said. The world came, looked, 
and shrugged its shoulders. The critics 
grumbled, ‘‘ Stamboul is doing frightful work.” 
That pleased him, he would keep his art, so he 
might immortalize her beauty. In two weeks’ 
time he goes back, with him goes a professional 
looking man, who takes Sara Exeter into a 


188 


A M0DJ5;RJ)r SimEB. 


room by herself, and asks her strange ques- 
tions about her blindness. She tells him, 
“ They said in Boston it was from overstudy, I 
had strained the nerves of the eye, I was to 
take perfect rest, and in time I might out- 
grow it.” 

Three days after she lay in a darkened room 
with odors of ether and flowers in it, lay 
among the pillows with bandages over her 
head. Strange things had happened in that 
room, and when she got up and left it, it was 
with her sight perfectly restored. But in her 
eyes lay a world of sorrow — some grief had 
come into her life that had made the girl a 
woman. And her young lips murmured, 
“ What have I done ? ” 


A MOjDmJV SINN£:M. 


189 


CHAPTER III. 

“ Decision, however suicidal, has more charm for a 
woman than the most unequivocal Fabian success.” — 
Hardy. 

Two YEARS had passed since Sara Exeter 
had her sight, but the same suffocating pain 
rises in her throat, as it did on that memora- 
ble day, as standing in that rustic nook, whither 
she had stolen away from Richard Westervelt 
at the close of our first chapter, she looks at 
the man at her side. Every detail impresses 
itself upon her to-night, as it had on that day. 
The same foppish style of dress ; the crease in 
his trousers ; the correct cut of his long coat ; the 
golden snake scarf-pin, with its diamond eyes 
gleaming in the moonlight, seem to bring 
it all back with faithful accuracy, but — she 
thinks with bitterness — had there been any 
fear of her forgetting it ? 


190 


A MODERN SINNER. 


He had taken her hand with a kindly “ Are 
you glad to see me, Sara ? ” 

“ Certainly, Gilbert,” withdrawing it, “ but 
why did you write for me to meet you here ? 
Why did you not come to the house as you 
usually do?” 

“ Because I wanted to see you alone, for 
once. Perhaps I was in hopes you would have 
given me a warmer welcome, when no one else 
was around,” wistfully. 

“ You know I am not demonstrative,” coldly. 
‘‘ But please do not let this occur again. It is 
not only undignified, but exceedingly uncom- 
fortable. A little too melodramatic — meeting 
you like this in the moonlight.” 

There is a note of pleading in her voice in 
spite of her commanding attitude — as if she 
was fighting with some subtle power exercised 
by this man. 

“How long will you remain?” she asks 
more kindly. 

“ I have come with the hope that you would 
want me over Sunday.” 


A MoD/^n^ siNJsrm. 


191 


“ Yes, you must stay long enough to let 
papa and all the rest think I am taking my ac- 
customed monthly painting lesson. J ust think, 
Gilbert, each month for two years you have 
instructed me, but what do I know ? Still, we 
did not come here to talk of that ; I have 
something important to say to you,” reluc- 
tantly. 

“ Yes ? ” looking at her sharply. 

“ I am a little sorry you came to-day. I 
have an engagement with Mr. Gerome to-mor- 
row, and ” 

“ Well, dear, you know you are always free 
in whatever you care to do,” with a sigh. 

“ Thank you ” — with a tone of bitterness in 
her voice. “ Free to the world, perhaps, but 
not in my own conscience, Gilbert ; ” abruptly, 
“ I am going to leave Alden.” 

“ Leave Alden, when ? ” 

“ On Monday ; I am going to ISTew York as 
the Baronne Yitioz’s guest, perhaps to re- 
main a week, a month, a year,” passionately 
raising her voice. “ W hat would you have me 


192 


A MODERN SINNER. 


do ? Live on here as I have for the last two 
years? Before I met you my life was bear- 
able — then my eyes were shut to many things 
whose attractions I could not appreciate. 
There, I suppose I have hurt your feelings. 
But, recollect what my life here is : I go to 
church fairs, lectures, progressive gossip par- 
ties ” — with a sarcastic smile — “ perhaps you 
call them teas. I am gorged with that sort of 
thing until I would be in danger of suffering 
from a social dyspepsia if it were not for the 
counteracting influence of the summer, when I 
meet at the hotel the class of people that are 
congenial.” 

“ And is the baroness the style of woman 
you admire ? ” asked Gilbert, keeping his eyes 
on the woman’s face. 

“ The baronne is my friend ; please do not 
question her character ; at least you agree that 
I have enough for two,” with a laugh. 

“ Sara, why are you so changed ? When I 
mar — when we first met, you were so differ- 
ent. You were the personification of all that 


A MOBBUJV SINNER. 


193 


was sweet and womanly. Have I been the 
means of changing your very nature when I 
was instrumental in giving you back your sight 
— or is it the weight of the secret — the secret 
that is changing you ? ” 

He notes with anguish the look of hardness 
that comes over the girl’s face at the mention 
of her blindness. 

“ Gilbert, in mercy do not ask me. I knew 
the time would come when an explanation 
would be necessary. We cannot go on as we 
have for the last two years. That I am 
wretched, you know. I hate the promise 
I made to God that day,” wearily. “I 
know you were honorable. You told me 
that if my eyesight was restored, and 1 found 
then I did not love 3 ^ou, you would never ask 
me to fulfill the promise I made at the altar. 
I should be your wife only in name — that is 
all I have ever been, but I am willing to be 
more. Stop,” as he made a motion to take 
her hand, “ I ask you now to let me be free — 
free in thought, word and action, just for a 


194 


A MODERN SINNER. 


year,” speaking with feverish rapidity. “ At 
the end of the twelve months I will come to 
you, and let you tell the world I am — your 
wife,” with a shudder. “ Let me go. Let 
me feel I am at liberty to enjoy the privileges 
of other girls of my age. Perhaps I shall 
grow wiser in this year ; perhaps our separa- 
tion will make me care more for you. Say 
you consent, Gilbert,” eagerly. 

“ Sara, have I ever refused to comply with a 
wish of yours ? ” 

“ E'o,” bowing her head with a half stifled 
sob. 

“ I shall pray to God to show you that you 
have won a man’s love and devotion. I 
thought once that that would be all that was 
necessary to make you happy. I should not 
think of refusing to go away from you at your 
request, when it may mean a life of happiness 
for us both in the future. I will take a run 
over to the ‘ other side’ and see what those 
Frenchmen have been daubing lately,” trying 
to speak lightly. “ Do you wish the contract 


A MODERN SINNER. 


195 


to begin to-night — shall I return to the city ? ” 
stopping abruptly in the road. 

‘^Certainly not. You have had a long 
journey and must stay until to-morrow. We 
leave for town ea'rly Monday morning. I 
will try and find time to speak to you to- 
morrow. Look out for the signal. As we are 
almost to the house, you take the carriage 
drive, and I’ll go through the field. I hope no 
one has seen us.” 

“ Hardly any fear of that. Most of the 
guests are dancing, I fancy. I do not like the 
idea of your going through that lonely path 
alone.” 

“ I shall be all right, I will run most of the 
way,” and she prepared to suit the action to 
the word, as she held her lacy skirts in one 
hand, and ran with the swiftness of a young 
animal. 

Straining his eyes to catch the last glimpse 
of the girl, Gilbert Stamboul stood leaning 
against the fence, lost in thought. Was she 
really happy in the idea she was not to see him 


196 


A 3I0DEBN SINNER. 


for a whole year ? Or was it only a girlish 
inclination that led her to ask for a life she 
knew so little of ? Did she realize what it 
meant for him to go away and leave her ? 
Surely not, for she had accepted his sacrifice in 
the same manner she might have accepted 
some bauble of intrinsic value. Yes, this 
woman was his wife, but in no way had he 
shown his authority as a husband. In name 
only was she his wife. Could he ever forget 
the look of horror on her face when she first 
saw the man she had told only a few hours 
previous that she loved ? In the agony of that 
moment, that supreme test, which he had tried 
to convince himself she could stand, had there 
not been danger of his reason giving way ? 
What an idiot he had been to imagine he 
could keep the love of a woman, and a woman 
such as she, after she had gazed upon his re- 
pulsive form.* Why had he believed her, 
when she said she would love him under all 
conditions, and through all circumstances ? 
“By Jove,” aloud, “ I certainly occupied a re- 


A MODERN SINNER. 


197 


served seat in a Fool’s Paradise.” But not for 
one instant had he ever regretted that sight 
had been restored to the woman he idolized, 
although in the restoration it deprived him of 
her love. With slow steps he walks toward 
the house, and breathes a sigh of relief when 
he finds no one but Mrs. Laurel in the ofiice. 
She gives him a vigorous welcome, shaking 
his hand warmly. “ Well, I am glad to see you, 
Mr. Stamboul. Came up on a late train, didn’t 
you? Walk up from the station? Sara will 
be glad to see you, but I don’t suppose she 
thinks she has much time for a painting lesson, 
she is so much occupied with these city folks ; 
besides two other families they are the only 
guests. I think Sara seems specially inter- 
ested in Mr. Gerome,” with a sly laugh. 

“ Ah, indeed,” replied Stamboul, with a sud- 
den pain at his heart. “ I thought Mr. Gerome 
the accepted suitor of the bewitching Eus- 
sian.” 

“ Well, I guess she generally wants as many 
strings to her bow as she can get, and he’s the 


198 


A MODERN SINNER, 


only man here ; but I am inclined to think he 
would rather be with Sara.” 

“ And does she show a decided preference 
for him ? ” 

“ Lor’ no, when did you see Sara care a snap 
of her finger for any man. Rather think she 
cares more for you than any one next to her 
father. She never seems to forget that it was 
you that had the doctor from 'New York cure 
her eyes. Besides, it is mighty good of you to 
come way from the city to give her lessons.” 

Little did her aunt suspect the motive of 
those lessons. 

“ Good-night, Mrs. Laurel, I shall not wait 
to see the major or Sara to-night. Tell them 
I am here, and as usual try to keep my arrival 
quiet. I will of course take my meals in my 
room — good-night.” 

“ Good-night, Mr. Stamboul,” watching the 
artist’s retreating figure. “ Well, if he 
ain’t the ugliest little man I ever set 
two eyes on. My, ain’t he fond of 
Sara. Wonder why he always wants to be so 


A modehn sinner. 


199 


secret about his comings and goings. Well, I 
have hard enough work to tend to my own 
business without looking out for his. Sara,” as 
she makes her appearance with Mr. Gerome, 
“ Mr. Stamboul has just come.” 

“ Indeed,” listlessly. “ Mr. Gerome, let us go 
out on the porch, it is so warm here.” 

“Yet you were running across the fields be- 
cause you were cold. Inconsistent. But then 
that is one of a woman’s charms,” seating him- 
self on the railing of the porch, close to Sara’s 
chair — so close she could not move without 
touching him. “ Miss Exeter,” he was saying, 
“ you do not know what it will mean to us all, 
if you decide to spend the winter with the 
baronne. You do not know what it will mean 
to me the tender intonation in his voice 
thrills her. “ Will you promise to give me as 
much of your society in the city as you have 
here ? ” his voice is close to her ear as he asks 
the question. She sways toward him just a 
trifle — it was only for an instant. Steps are 
heard on the porch, They both rise quickly. 


200 


A MOBBUJY SINNER. 


‘‘ And at what hour will you go for our 
ride ? ” Gerome asks nonchalantly. 

“ About eleven, good-night,” and without a 
word more she goes into the house, while 
Kichard Gerome, the club-man, desultory 
dilettante., half-cynic, half -philosopher, neither 
very good nor very bad, picks up a rose that 
has fallen from the girl’s corsage. 

“ By Jove, 1 believe I am getting sentimental. 
What is it, the moon or that champagne at din- 
ner? But that girl is enough to turn any 
man’s head. Ah, fancy a man with a good 
digestion becoming sentimental.” Sticking 
the flower in his buttonhole, he lights a 
cigarette, and soon the gravel of the carriage 
drive crunches beneath his feet. 

Sara makes her appearance next morning 
with heavy rings under her eyes. Perhaps her 
manner is more quiet than usual, as she bows 
to Mrs. Dolly and the baronne, who are seated 
in front of a huge fire of logs. 

Did you ever see such a change. Miss 
Exeter ? ” demands the baronne with a shiver. 


A MODERN SINNER, 


201 


“ I see you have your habit on and cannot be 
going to church either ; I fear if I should go, 
I would come away with the conviction I am 
a sinner. That would be so unpleasant ; es- 
pecially if I returned so repentant, I might 
think seriously of taking the veil.” 

“ The bridal?” 

“ Don’t be frivolous, Dolly. I assure you I 
have not whitewashed my sins since the day we 
went to an isha about twenty miles from 
Yozdram. We shot snipe in the morning.” 

“ You shoot?” asks Sara with interest. 

“ Everything, from foxes to glances. 
Bien, in the afternoon we drove seventeen 
miles in a teleyea. I never thanked heaven so 
fervently as I did when I was shaken out, and 
found I had arrived safely, but then misfor- 
tune always takes us nearer heaven or earth. 
I was never so devout in my life as I was on 
the morning of my civil marriage to the baron. 
I should have taken it for an omen. Miss 
Exeter, take my advice, never marry a man 
who insists on wearing mauve neckties, and 


202 


A MODERN SINNER. 


adores the odor of essence of amber. Rest 
assured he has a history, and his wife’s name 
does not figure on a page of it. If you wish 
to be happy marry a man who prefers the 
newspapers to Coppe and cabbage to caviare. 
Oblige him to look at the period of your be- 
trothal through the wrong end of an opera 
glass. Bury your love affairs in a bed of pop- 
pies the day you become a wife, otherwise you 
will be starved to death on the prosaic details 
of everyday life. I shall make it my duty in 
life, when I take you to New York, to present 
eligible men, who will, of course, propose to 
you. Men always do when they are triste^ or 
have had a good dinner — both conditions 
render them thoroughly stupid. You must 
tell me what they say. Next to our own 
flirtations, we enjoy others’, do we not ? But 
to tell you the truth I see no necessity of your 
marrying in your first season. The only ad^ 
vantage to be gained is that your visiting 
cards bear a correct social statement, that 
looks odd to you. And you may wear bon^ 


A MODERN SINNER. 


203 


nets with the comforting reflection your hus- 
band is paying for them.” 

“ I am not anxious to try the experiment,” 
answered Sara, averting her face from the 
light. 

“Exactly the answer I expected, which 
means that you are either in love with some 
one below you in life, or you have a bad head- 
ache.” 

“ I assure you it is neither,” uneasily 
tapping her foot with her riding whip. 

“ And that is fortunate. A protracted in- 
fliction of either ailment is bad for a debu- 
tante. In her first season her behavior and 
the necks of her gowns should not be open 
to criticism. Ah, here is Dick,” as Gerome 
enters quickly with : 

“ Forgive me for keeping you waiting. 
Miss Exeter, but my horse ran a pebble in 
his foot, and we had some trouble getting 
it out.” 

There is no necessity for Sara to reply, for 
the baronne answers : 


204 


A MODERN SINNER. 


“ My dear Dick, what would women have to 
interest them, if it was not for forgiving men 
their faults ? ” 

As Sara and Gerome leave them, Mrs. Dolly 
shakes her head with a wise, “ I do not like the 
looks of that.” 


A MODERN SINNER. 


205 


CHAPTER lY. 

THE BEGINNING OF THE YE kJEL. 

As Sara Exeter settled herself in the saddle 
and Gerome tucked her little foot into the 
stirrup, she felt a strange sense of exhilaration 
and freedom — a freedom that would commence 
from to-day. Why should she not enjoy every 
moment of this year of liberty ? How stupid 
she had been to worry herself as she had last 
night, because she had listened to Richard 
Gerome’s very entertaining and rather personal 
remarks. How one-sidedly she looked at things. 
Had not the baronne said a few moments ago 
that marriage was nothing more than a very 
matter-of-fact contract ? After this year of 
freedom she would, of course, be quite willing 
to settle down and try and care for Gilbert. 
She would make him quite happy, she com- 
mented ; she would still keep up her painting 


206 


A MODERN SINNER. 


SO it would please him to note her progress on 
his return. It is certainly very jolly to think 
she can ride like this with Mr. Gerome ; if he 
gave her the opportunity she really felt as if 
she might flirt with him just a tiny bit. (Had 
the baronne’s cynical advice put her conscience 
on ice ? ) What a child she was to be sure ! 
How she magnified trifles ! Kichard Gerome 
was nothing more than a summer acquaintance ; 
it was the effect of her interview with Gilbert 
that had made her in such an emotional state. 
Of course, he had not meant any of the things 
he had said to her last evening. Of course not 
— things look so different in the daylight. 

Whipping her horse into a brisk canter that 
sends the blood flying into her cheeks, stain- 
ing them a deep magenta, she rides steadily on. 
Her escort looks at her with pleasure, noting 
the fit of her habit, her well rounded figure, 
and, as he looks, he wonders if she has for- 
gotten one or two of the sentimental speeches 
he had made last night. She had looked so be- 
wilderingly pretty in the moonlight, almost as 


A MODERir smiTER. 


207 


pretty as she does now, and it was such a 
temptation to make her nice speeches ; it was 
rather piquant to make her a compliment 
which she would take as a novelty. No doubt 
it was, but it was such a refreshing sensation to 
be believed. And this girl, who was not a pretty 
fool. Was so genuinely sincere she believed 
others so. As she draws her horse up with 
a sudden jerk, he remarks: 

“ Miss Exeter, you are looking as sweet as a 
little peach this morning.” 

“ Little peaches are always sour — how un- 
kind,” with a happy little laugh. 

“ The retort sounds as if it might be from 
the baronne’s lips.” 

“Where could I find a more delightful 
example ? ” 

“ I see you are betwitched by her already,” 
with a sigh. “The baronne is a most attrac- 
tive woman, but I would rather cut off my 
right hand than see you like her. I see you 
are surprised. The baronne is a friend of 
mine, a very good one no doubt, but to my 


208 


A MODERN SINNER. 


mind she is not the sort of a woman I would 
wish to see you imitate. Perhaps, after your 
winter in iSTew York, you will find that people 
are not all that they seem. I tell you this 
with the hopes the warning may save you an 
extra pang when the disillusion comes. How- 
ever, let us talk of something more cheerful. 
Have you reflected that this is our last ride ? ” 

“ Why will you refer to our last ride, our last 
walk, as if the end of the world was about to 
come? Your efforts for a cheerful conversa- 
tion have not met with success. Is nothing 
pleasant going to happen when we get to 
the city ? ” 

“ If it depends upon me, I think there is 
going to be lots of pleasure in store for you, 
but I think a great deal will depend upon 
yourself,” tenderly. 

“Well, as we are so uncertain of the future 
let us make the best of the present. Ifil race 
you to that clump of trees, about half a mile 
off.” 


“ Shall I give you a handicap ? ” 


A MODERN SINNER 


209 


“ Thank you, only time enough to tuck in my 
hair-pins, for I ask no favor of a man,” and 
with a cut of her whip and a sudden steeling of 
her muscles she is off, with Gerome close at 
her heels ; in a few seconds, he is even with 
her, and now they tear along, neck and neck, 
when Gerome comes to a sudden stop. 

“Hang it, there goes my girth, broken of 
course; why can’t they make these straps 
stronger ? That means I shall have to go over 
to that farmhouse to have it fixed. Will you 
go with me, or wait here ? ” 

“Why, I shall go with you ” — when a sudden 
whistle in the air causes ’her to change color 
and add “ if you wish me to. But perhaps I 
might walk on to the trees and meet you 
there.” All the gayety and life have gone 
out of her face, and she has the same expres- 
sion in her eyes that has so often baffled him. 

“ Very well, I will meet you there,” and off 
he starts with his horse’s bridle over his arm. 
“ I’ll wager that girl has got a beastly temper 
or she would not have been so put out by this 


210 


A MODERN SINNER, 


accident* I suppose she is too pretty to be 
angelic ; the two never seem to go together 
harmoniously.” 

As soon as he is out of hearing she puckers 
her lips and gives the same signal she had 
heard a minute before. “Surely, that was 
Gilbert's whistle,” listening. She is answered, 
and in a few seconds Gilbert Stamboul is with 
her. 

“ Gilbert, how did you know I was here ? ” 

“ It was not so difficult to discover. As I 
was walking from church I saw the accident 
to Gerome’s saddle, and as I wanted to speak 
to you alone, I knew if I whistled you would 
remain behind while the strap was mended. I 
am going to leave to-day. I shall possibly sail 
for Europe on Wednesday.” She notices how 
haggard and drawn his face is. “ I have a few 
words I want to say to you, as I suppose I 
shall not see you again. 1 shall not forget our 
contract. You will not see my face again for a 
year. Wh le I am talking to you, do you 
object to my making a sketch of you ? ” 


A MODERN SINNER. 


211 


“ No,” trying to repress a shudder, for it 
reminds her of their first meeting. 

“ Sara, I want to ask you a question,” draw- 
ing rapidly. “I know you will answer me 
truthfully — do you care for Eichard Gerome ? ” 

“ What do you mean by the word care ? Do 
you mean am I in love with him ? Decidedly 
not. I shall not forget I am your wife ! ” 
proudly. 

“ Forget, if you wish to, dear. All I ask of 
you is to promise me if in this year of separa- 
tion you find there is any one to whom you 
might give the — the heart I once thought 
mine, you will tell me,” eagerly. 

“ I promise,” coldly. 

“ Thank you, dear. Will you let me kiss 
you good-by ? ” 

“Yes, Gilbert.” A great pity comes into 
her heart for this man whose life she has 
blighted, who is going to condemn himself to a 
year of expatriation for her sake. 

“ Gilbert, can you forgive 'me for all I have 
made you suffer ? When this year is up, I 


212 


A SINNER. 


will come back to you, wiser and older. I am 
going to try and make you happy then; 
Gilbert, I do care for you — but — but not in the 
way I once thought I did. Look, Mr. Gerome 
is coming back.” He hastily puts- the sketch- 
ing pad in his pocket, and for one moment 
buries his eyes in the beauty of the woman he 
would give his life to make happy. Wringing 
her hands with a “ God bless you, my darling ” 
he has left her. 

As Gerome helps Sara into the saddle again, 
he remarks : “ That stupid fellow kept me 
such a time, have you missed me?” 

Sara is visibly embarrassed, as she pulls on 
the whitedog-skin gauntlet and replies, “ You 
hardly gave me time to consider.” 

“ You are cruel.” 

“ That is what men say when women do not 
do exactly what pleases them.” 

“ You occasionally betray a surprising knowl- 
edge of men and their traits.” 

“ I have a father.” 


“ And a sweetheart ? ” 


A MODERN SINNER, 


213 


“ He is both.” 

“ You are a diplomat. How long is this to 
be the case ? ” 

“Until the case is altered.” 

“ Will you let me alter it?” 

“ How?” 

As Gilbert Stamboul stands sheltered by the 
trees, he hears this fragment of their conversa- 
tion. Watching them as they walk down the 
road, he pulls his hat more firmly over his 
eyes and draws on* his gloves. 

“Perhaps that will be my expiation,” he 
mutters. 


As the baronne sits with Mrs. Dolly in the 
rooms she has made almost luxurious with her 
many — so it Avould seem — indispensable belong- 
ings, she says : 

“ Dolly, I think your brother is falling in 
love.” 

“ My dear Yildimarre, how delighted I am 
you are beginning to appreciate the fact.” 
There is just a tinge of irony in her tones as 


214 


A MODERN SINNER. 


she blames the baronne for not prospering her 
brother’s suit more expediently. 

“ I think after a winter in IS’ew York she 
will be able to do the honors of the table with 
considerable grace. She will soon learn the 
difference between sole d La Marguary and 
hmsP 

“What?” 

“ Cherie^ am I like history that I must repeat 
myself ? I say Miss Exeter will develop 
into a charming chatelaine.” 

“ You mean Kichard is in love with that 
girl. Nonsense ! She is not his style. I 
thought you were talking of yourself. Yildi- 
marre, when will you acknowledge Eichard’s 
affection for you ? I know it is his only wish 
in life to make you his wife.” 

“ Yes ? But it is not my only wish to be- 
come so. It is very sweet of you to look so 
doleful. Once upon a time I married for a 
name, and if I marry again it will be to please 
myself. In spite of your very flattering 
speech, Eichard is not the least bit in love — 
with me.” 


A MODERN SINNER. 


215 


“But you really should marry again — for 
discipline — and why not Kichard ? Your mar 
riage might be as comfortable as James’ and 
mine. He goes his way, I go mine, taking 
care that both roads go in opposite directions. 
I see to the regime of his household, entertain 
his guests, never ask stupid questions, and do 
not do anything that might furnish gossip for 
the clubs. On his part he pays whatever bills 
I care to run up, allows me to wear diamonds 
which he detests, never asks where I have 
been or where I am going. He is satisfied. 
Why should 1 not be ? ” - 

“ Yes, you seem so, but it is being happy in 
such a negative sort of a fashion. Its monot- 
ony would kill me. I would prefer to love a 
man so I would know it was blood, not ice 
water, that runs in my veins.” There is a 
suppressed excitement in her manner. “ Can- 
not you see why I have asked Miss Exeter 
to visit me ? I intend to educate her to 
become Kichard’s wife. I began my lessons 
this morning when I told her not to marry, 


216 


A MODERN SINNER. 


tried to make her believe that love is an 
obsolete word. Opposition goes a great way 
with a girl of her age and experience.” 

“ Yildimarre, do not talk so. If I thought 
you in earnest, I should forbid this girl accept- 
ing your invitation. My brother marry a little 
insignificant country girl ? Preposterous ! ” 

“ I thought you admired her,” slyly. 

“ So I do, but not as a sister-in-law.” 

This is becoming doubly interesting. Fancy 
how I shall have to scheme to frustrate your 
plans. Delicious,” with a gay laugh. “I 
promise you Kichard shall marry Miss Exeter 
— or I go to Siberia. I shall take care you will 
not be ashamed of your future sister-in-law.” 

“ I shall not listen to you any longer. I am 
going to write some letters,” and Mrs. Dolly 
leaves the room with a most unladylike bang. 
As soon as she leaves, the baronne’s maid slips 
her into a gold and black crepe neglige, that 
coils around her like a snake. With a weary 
sigh she throws herself on the couch with a 
book in her hand which she reads upside down 
until her woman leaves the apartment. 


A MODERN SINNER. 


217 


will be so easy,” she muses aloud. 
“ Everything is going my way. Eichard thinks 
I have invited this girl to visit me because I 
am interested in her. He is not quite clever 
enough to see that I know it is the girl’s in- 
nocence, her total lack of aifection, that is 
attracting him. He is not very deeply in love 
at present, but it will soon approach a crisis, 
and he must decide against her. How easy it 
will be to make her like the women I know 
he detests. How easily she will come out of 
this charming chrysalis state of unsophisti- 
catedness and bloom into a creature of worldly 
airs and graces, shorn of all her originality, 
exactly like the hundreds of women he meets 
at dances, dinners, opera. Let her become 
vain, worldly, and Eichard will hate her as 
much as I love him. Why is it women invari- 
ably fall in love with some one who is abso- 
lutely indifferent ? Perhaps there is happiness 
in pursuit ; will the weariness follow if I win 
him ? Of course this girl has not been suffici- 
ently obliging to fall in love with any one 


218 


A MODERN SINNER, 


here. She has seen but few men and does not 
strike me as being Yery susceptible. I really 
think she is quite indifferent to Kichard, so I 
am not depriving her of any happiness. After 
telling Dolly I was not in love with her broth- 
er she will, woman-like, tell him. That will 
wound his vanity. She will then tell him 
about Sara. He is not so ej>ris, he will think 
it worth the trouble of circumventing his 
sister. Yes, it was certainly wiser to invite her 
to visit me ; better than leaving her where 
Kichard might see her unknown to me. Of 
course I am sorry for the girl. I will atone by 
giving her a good time in town. Plenty of 
marriageable men around, besides she does not 
love Richard, and I do,” sleepily. “ I really had 
no idea I could be so wicked. I am beginning 
to feel like the bad woman on the stage. She 
will become a fascinating woman, but she will 
not fascinate Richard Gerome,” and the 
baronne was soon fast asleep with her book 
still unfinished. 


A MODERN SINNER. 


219 


CHAPTER Y. 

Believe an epitah, or a woman, or anything that is 
false.” — Byron. 

They have been just a week in New York, 
and Sara stands in one of the windows of the 
baronne’s home on East Thirty-seventh Street. 
She knows there is a comfortable, respectable 
statement in its brown stone front, but at pres- 
ent she is not particularly comfortable in it, 
she reflects as she a imlessly watches a boy light- 
ing the lamps on the street, and whistling a 
popular tune with shrill variations. As he 
turns the corner she lets her eyes roam over 
the pretty furnishings of the room, and sees 
herself faintly reflected in the long mirror of 
maple-wood and silver. To the average woman 
the reflection might have been a solace ; 
she certainly looks charming in her dainty 


220 


A MODERIf SimEE. 


silk waist, and serge skirt with belt of Russian 
enamel given her by the baronne. With a 
gesture of disgust she gives a vigorous pull to 
the already large sleeves, and ventures the 
criticism, “ Those clothes are all right in the 
country, but how different they look in town. 
To think I have spent almost the whole of 
the money papa gave me, for that simple little 
tailor-made gown.” Going to the dresser 
table, she takes a large envelope from the 
drawer, lights the gas, and looks at the in- 
scription on the inner covering, “ Accept this 
for my sake. Remember you are my wife. 
G. S.” She had not opened the package, 
which Gilbert had left for her, knowing it 
must contain a large sum of money — a gift 
she would never accept from the man to whom 
she had given nothing but unhappiness, and 
she tosses it back carelessly among the rib- 
bons and laces, as she thinks nothing can 
tempt her to use it. 

“ I suppose I must dress. What was it the 
baronne said as I left her ? Dressing one’s self 


A MOB^RJV SINJ^^EB. 


221 


was very much like driving a donkey — 
neither should he hurried. Evidently not, for 
I am given two hours to dress for this din- 
ner party, when at home I could do it in 
a quarter of that time.” 

The first week of her year of liberty has 
not been one of unbounded success. The 
baronne had played the part of hostess delight- 
fully. She had chaperoned her to a luncheon, 
and Mrs. Yan Kenseiler’s dancing class, and 
to-night she was to go to her first dinner 
party. Perhaps she is a little homesick, as she 
thinks how doleful her father had looked, as he 
had said good-by. If any one had suggested 
it was because Kichard Gerome had not paid 
her the attention he had hinted at Alden, she 
would have denied it heroically. Why should 
she care for him ? Was not her life some one 
else’s? With a sigh she mentally vows noth- 
ing wiU ever make her untrue to Gilbert, even 
in thought. Poor fellow. He had left on 
Wednesday’s steamer as he had said he would. 
It is a balm to her conscience to think she had 
written him a kindly note of farewell. 


222 


A MODERN SINNER. 


As the maid enters to dress her hair, she 
lays the evening papers on the table. Sara 
turns over the pages with little interest, until 
she sees the headlines “ Opening of the Acad- 
emy,” and a lengthy description of the pic- 
tures in the exhibition. “ Cox, Brown, French, 
Kemington, Beckwith, Johnson have all con- 
tributed, but the gem of the collection,” she 
reads “is ‘ On the Threshold of Womanhood,’ 
by Gilbert Stamboul, a portrait of an exqui- 
sitely beautiful girl in gray, with a background 
of eastern hangings. The drawing, concep- 
tions, flesh tintings are marvelous. Stamboul 
has redeemed himself. One of America’s 
greatest artists had fairly outshone himself in 
this, his masterpiece, etc.” What had tempted 
Gilbert to give the picture he had first painted 
of her to the world ! she wonders. The notice 
has impressed her, for she begins to realize 
what her husband’s fame means. 

As soon as she finishes her toilette, she goes 
to the baronne’s room. Her ladyship is care- 
fully bathing the end of her nose in powder. 


A MODERN SINNER. 


m 


With a final twist to the love lock on her fore- 
head and sticking another diamond pin among 
the already large assortment on her bodice, 
she turns and critically surveys her guest — 
from the aigrette in her hair, to her little white 
slippers. 

“ Charming. You really do me credit. 
Altho’ you need something more. You look 
too severe,’’ giving a more perky twist to 
Sara’s hair with her nimble fingers. “ There, 
you want a final touch of frivolity. Maria,” 
to the maid, “ bring me that white ostrich fan, 
the largest one;” Avhile she thinks what 

a hete, throwing my own attractions from the 
house-tops. She is faultless. She will bewitch 
Mm to-night as she has never done before. So 
stupid to be honestly interested in one’s rival.” 
As the bell rings, she says aloud, “Ah, that 
must be Mr. Gerome.” 

“ Is he going with us ? ” turning quickly. 

“ Yes. Did you not get the flowers he sent 
you ? 1^0 ? Maria must have forgotten them,” 
noting the flush of pleasure that rises to the 


224 


A MODERN SINNER. 


girl’s face, as the maid hands her a bundle of 
white lilacs. Carelessly the baronne takes up a 
mass of orchids. “ Dick always sends me these, 
he thinks they suit my style.” As they get 
into their wraps she says, “ I fear you will find 
Mrs. Burton-Laid’s dinner very stupid. Her 
functions are very much as they say marriage 
is — those that are in it want to get out, those 
that are out want to get in. They are very 
solemn aristocratic affairs. The claret is good 
when one can get at it, and the ‘ red heads ’ — 
well, one does not want to get at them,” with 
a shrug of her well- whitened shoulders. “ Ho 
doubt you will enjoy yourself. It will all be 
new to you. Kemember your talk ; after the 
first season you may eat at dinners. Once 
gain the reputation of a conversationalist and 
you may be mute for the rest of your life.” 

As they step into the carriage, Gerome 
whispers : 

“You are ravishing. Miss Exeter.” 

“ It is a fault you have not accused me of 
lately,” she replies, with some asperity. 


A MOJ)JSJiJ\r SINNER. 


226 


“ Your remark shows me you are rapidly 
becoming a girl of the period.” 

“ Have you reflected I am not left over from 
another ? ” 

His rerdark displeases her. What did he 
expect ? That she was an ignorant country 
girl, who might be tolerated as a companion 
in buck-board parties, picnics and other rural 
pleasures, who, when she arrived in the city, 
would bring the scent of the hay-fields, whose 
escutcheon might bear a churn and a three- 
legged stool ? She is thoroughly out of tem- 
per as she sits in the corner of the brougham. 
As they enter the drawing-room, Sara sees for 
the first time what Mrs. Burton-Laid’s small 
dinner means. About thirty-five people are in 
the room, who glance up carelessly as they 
enter. She is presented to her hostess, an 
elderly woman, with a gigantic tiara of emer- 
alds, and a hooked nose. Mrs. Westervelt is 
among the guests, who smiles patronizingly as 
she sees that Sara is to be taken in to dinner 
by an inoffensive young man with a loping 


226 A MODBRJ^ SINNER. 

walk, and an intelligent smile, who had been 
introduced to her by Mrs. Burton-Laid in this 
fashion : “ Mr. Hargous leads all our cotillions 
— hope you will be friends.’’ 

After that^^^m they did their best to ac- 
commodate their hostess. The baron ne is 
seated by Kichard Gerome at the other end of 
the table. It is rather hard to follow the ad- 
vice .given her and talk, for Mr. Hargous jug- 
gles with the parts of speech in a very enter- 
taining manner. By the time they are eating 
an entree, it has not been necessary for her to 
say anything — and she is watching the girl op- 
posite her, and speculating how she can drink 
so much, and still preserve her icy composure. 
As Sara sips her Burgundy, it dawns upon her 
that her companion is saying something about 
art, with his intelligent smile displayed to the 
best advantage. Feeling that is a subject on 
which she, can talk, she plunges in, until he 
says something about the Fall Academy. 

“ Do you know it has been haunting me, 
trying to place your face? I cannot have 


A MOBMBJSr SINNER 227 

seen you anywhere, for the baronne told me 
this is your first season in New York. It has 
all come to me in a flash — the resemblance 
between you and Stamboul’s picture, that is 
causing so much talk.” 

“ Yes, that is it. He painted that portrait 
of me two years ago,” she answers quietly, 
and the next minute could have bitten her 
tongue out, for he mentions the fact to his 
neighbor, and so it goes around the table. 
The women stare, and the men reflect she is 
decidedly pretty, while Mrs. W'estervelt raises 
her gold lorgnettes, “ Tell us about it. Miss 
Exeter ? ” 

“ There is not much to tell,” speaking ner- 
vously. “Mr. Stamboul was staying at the 
same place that I was, two years ago, and 
painted my portrait. Since then I have taken 
lessons of him.” 

“ What ! The great Stamboul give lessons ? 
Impossible,” some one says. 

“ You must have unusual talent,” the girl 
with the icy composure frigidly remarks. 


228 


A MODERN SINNER. 


Then in a whisper, “ It must be so unpleasant 
to be hung and stared at, even in the Acad- 
emy.” 

Then every one begins to talk of Stamboul — 
his fame, which is evidently worshiped in JSTew 
York. She feels a certain sense of elation to 
think that some day these people will know 
she is the great artist’s wife, until her vis-d-vis 
question^ : 

“ Is he not an ugly little fellow ? It must 
have strengthened your sense of the ludicrous, 
studying with him.” 

On the contrary, only my sense of con- 
sideration for others,” catching Eichard 
Gerome’s eye, who nods approvingly. “ What 
a hypocrite I am to make that remark. Do I 
not think secretly what this girl has said 
openly ? ” It hurt her deeply to hear him ridi- 
culed, and for the rest of the dinner she is 
silent. 

At the dance later, the baronne whispers : 

“ Your social stock has gone up a hundred 
per cent. It was just what you wanted, this 


A MODERN SINNER, 


229 


bit of notoriety, to make you talked about, 
consequently a belle. Why did you not tell 
me you knew Gilbert Stamboul? Was he 
that little humpback artist we sometimes saw 
at the hotel ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ How odd,” looking at the girl’s averted 
face sharply. “ You are a great success, Sara. 
Ho one would imagine this was your first week 
in society. Only do not make sharp speeches to 
people as you did to the girl at the table,” and 
the baronne is perfectly sincere in what she 
says. 

As Gerome lights a cigarette from the fire- 
belching, silver lizard in the smoking room, 
Hargous enters. 

“ Hello, Gerome, not dancing ? Don’t blame 
you. Awful crush downstairs. That cotil- 
lion did me up. Kather jolly girl that led it 
with me ! ” 

“ You mean Miss Exeter ? ” 

“ Yes. Ever meet her before to-night ? ” 

“ On several occasions.” 


230 


A MOD EBS SiNNEU. 


“Odd she did not say she knew you.’^ 
Hargous’ tone piques him, and the easy man- 
ner in which he claims acquaintance with Sara 
annoys him. 

“ Ever meet her at a dance ? ” Hargous in- 
quires after a short pause. 

“ ISTo.” 

“ She said this was her first cotillion. I 
thought she was joking. She went through it 
in great shape.” 

“ Is Miss Exeter dancing at present ? ” de- 
mands Gerome, throwing away his cigar- 
ette. 

“ My boy, you do not stand a chance, even 
if you are an old friend. The fellows are too 
deep around her. Billy Bunker is as hard hit 
as I am,” with a sigh. 

“ I shall run my chances,” curtly. Leaving 
the room he mutters : 

“ What a cad. I must save Sara from men 
of that stamp.” 

It was not hard to persuade Sara to give him 
a dance, which they “sat out” on the broad 
stairs. 


A MODERN SINNER. 


231 


“Being together once more reminds me 
of Alden, only you seem miles away from me 
now.” 

“ I beg your pardon, there is only the dis- 
tance of a step.” 

“ How flippant.” 

“ Possibly.” 

“ If there is one thing that prejudices me 
against a woman it is insincerity.” 

“ I had no idea one had prejudices in New 
York.” 

“ Yes, and sometimes preferences.” 

“Then there is something really old-fash- 
ioned in the city.” 

“ What is the trouble, little girl ? ” dropping 
his tone of bantering. “ Are you not enjoy- 
ing yourself ? Let me answer the question for 
you. You And everything so different from 
what you expected. The attention you re- 
ceive might intoxicate you, were it not for the 
remarks the women have made — and you have 
heard.” • He, looks tenderly at her as she sits 
twisting the ends of her sash around her fin- 


332 


A MODERN SINNER. 


gers. ‘‘ Miss Exeter, you are the first woman 
that has interested me. The majority of the 
girls with their fashionable manners, stereo- 
typed smile and their still more stereotyped 
ideas disgust me. They belong distinctly to 
this century, altho’ the family think themselves 
beyond it. They giggle in the morning and* 
chatter in the evening. Their only individual- 
ity is in their varied degree of sameness. You, 
on the other hand — and I am speaking frankly 
— appeal to one’s imagination. A man cannot 
gauge your character over a teacup. I do not 
feel as if I knew you yet. The baronne, 1 be- 
lieve, is going to undertake your subsequent 
education. She will make you like the girls I 
have just described. Fight against her influ- 
ence — for I prefer you just as you are, because 
I care a great deal for you, dear. Tell me, 
have you thought a little of me this even- 
ing ? ” 

“ Mr. Gerome, you are conceited,” trying to 
infuse some gayety into her voice. 

“ It is a fault I inherited from my father. 
Are you going to answer my question ? ” 


A MODERN SINNER. 


233 


. “ No.” 

“ Then I shall come to-morrow and taB:e tea 
with the baron ne. Tell me, shall I come ? I 
see Billy Bunker scowling at me from a dis- 
tance. It must be his dance.” 

“ Tell him I am going home, if the baronnc 
is ready.” 

Shall I take you to her ? ” feeling a little 
hurt that she has not answered him. 

‘‘ Please do so.” 

‘‘ May I come to-morrow.” 

“Yes,” desperately — thinking to herself, 
“What is to be the outcome of this? How 
faithless I am to Gilbert.” 


234 


A MODERN SINNER. 


CHAPTEE YI. 

“ Disguise our bondage as we will, ’tis woman, woman 
rules us still. — Moore.'' 

As Eichard Geeome walked from his 
bachelor apartments in the Victoria ” one 
morning, a couple of weeks after the dinner 
dance at Mrs. Burton-Laid’s, he encountered 
his sister, Mrs. Wester velt, wearing a deter- 
mined look and a tailor-made gown. 

“ Good-morning, Dick. You are just the 
person I wanted to see. May I have a word 
with you ? ’’ 

“ You are flattering. You generally have 
the last word ; why not the first ? ” 

“ Please do not try to be witty so early in 
the morning,” witheringly. 

“ JSTo effort, I assure you,” mildly. 

“I want to talk with you about the bar- 
onne,” 


A MODERN SINNER. 


235 


“ You could not choose a more interesting 
subject.” 

“ Not if I spoke of Miss Exeter ? ” sarcastic- 
ally. 

“ I naturally thought one included the other,” 
calmly. 

“ Dick, I want you to be honest with me, 
and tell me just how much you care for her.” 

“ The baronne or her guest ? ” 

“ How exasperating you are — Miss Exeter, of 
course.” 

“ If you will tell me your reason for asking 
the question, I might answer you.” 

“ The day before we left Alden, Yildimarre 
and I had a long talk about you. I told 
her I knew you wished to make her your wife, 
but she was not inclined to think you in 
love — with her.” 

“ The baronne is a woman of discrimina- 
tion.” 

“ I agree with you, for she was sufficiently 
discriminating to discover something I had not 
foreseen,” 


236 


A MODERN SINNER. 


“ And that was ” 

“ That you were falling in love with Sara 
Exeter.” 

Is that a crime ? ” 

“ Yes, when it is a choice between two 
women such as the baronne and Miss Exeter. 
Yildimarre is a woman of culture, of wealth 
and of rank. The Russian minister said there 
was no woman as popular as she is at the 
Court. She has been feted and flattered to 
such an extent that it would have turned any 
woman’s head but the baronne’s. Hers is set 
very firmly on her shoulders. That woman 
would give her life for you* and man-like you 
cannot appreciate it.” 

“ If the baronne is such a paragon, I fear it 
would be all one-sided.” 

“ Nonsense, Dick, you have an independent 
fortune, enough dead ancestors to start a 
respectable graveyard, and you would be 
remarkably good-looking if you did not plaster 
your hair down in that idiotic fashion. I think 
you are just the people for one another. The 


A MODERN SINNER, 


237 


baronne is fond of America, and I know if you 
were to ask her to stay, she would accept. On 
the other hand, Sara Exeter is a very beautiful 
girl I grant, but a nobod^^ from nowhere.” 

“ My dear sister, you are such a woman of 
genius, if I was engaged to Miss Exeter, you 
would immediately tell your hundred and one 
bosom friends that ‘ Miss Exeter was so charm- 
ing. Her father, the major, such a delightful 
man. West Point graduate, don’t you know. 
Drinks, of course, like the majority of army 
officers. Very brilliant man. Quite needless 
to ask if you saw Miss Exeter’s portrait at the 
Academy, painted by the famous Stamboul, 
you know. I am delighted over the match.’ 
There,” as he sees Mrs. Dolly has puckered up 
her face into a smile, “ you see you could find 
something to whisper into society’s ear. How- 
ever, you will not be called upon to say it as 

yet ; let me frank with you, Dolly ” 

It would be refreshing,” ironically. 

“ When I first met Sara Exeter,” not notic- 
ing the interruption, “ I was simply attracted. 


238 


A MODERN SINNER. 


Little by little I began to appreciate. She had 
a power over me. Magnetism, if you will. 
Without being an intellectual woman, a man 
would never suffer from mental stagnation by 
her side. I do not think it is a passion with 
me, nor is it the calm, reasoning, mature love 
of a man who has seen and known many women. 
Six months ago, if you had described Sara 
Exeter to me I should not have been even 
interested. I would have said she had many 
traits I did not admire, but she is a woman men 
love for her very faults. With me it is a love 
that has no hour for its birth. I feel she has 
been a part of my life long before we met. A 
love that subjects me, tyrannizes me strongly. 
I have tried to reason it all out ; I cannot, it is 
too complex for me. All I know is she has 
dominated my personality. Sara represents 
to me a type of all that is exquisite in life.” 

As his sister looks at him in amazement, he 
continues: 

“ Queer, is it not, to hear a man at eleven in 
the morning walking along Fifth Avenue, which 




239 


is symbolic of ‘ la maladie Jin de siecle ’ — talk- 
ing in nineteenth century tones of such a back 
number as love. I am inclined to think that 
love is our one relic that keeps us from over em- 
phasizing progress.” 

‘But Mrs. Westervelt is too busy thinking to 
pay heed to her brother’s half cynical remarks. 
She demands rather abruptly : 

“Then you fully intend to marry Miss 
Exeter ? ” 

“ My dear sister, do not be conventional. I 
naturally thought when a man loved a woman, 
wedding cards, and ‘ they lived happily ever 
after,’ were the correct things. However, I 
have not had all to say about that. I have 
proposed to Miss Exeter, and she refused me.” 

“ Kefused you ? ” 

“ Exactly. I should have been disappointed 
in her, if she had not. She cares for me. The 
ordinary woman accepts the man she likes. If 
he is eligible, her good common sense, as it is 
called, shows her no reason why she should 
refuse. They are the women once won, always 


240 


A MOBBBJf SINNER. 


won. They are ever constant — which is an- 
other name for physchological starvation. One 
man will scrape together the crumbs of affec- 
tion, make a patty cake of it, and offer it to the 
ordinary woman. She eats it. That is an end 
of it all. He has filled the woman’s imagina- 
tion. That is why we call so many married 
women ‘ commonplace.’ ” 

“ What reason did Sara give for refusing 
you ? ” 

“ The only sentence that sounded everyday 
from her lips, ‘that she did not care to marry.’ 
Nevertheless the answer contented me, for it 
proves she is not to be easily enticed to the 
altar. I shall lead her there ultimately, and 
as soon as the benediction is pronounced I 
shall begin to torture myself with jealousy. 
That is the approved bitter-sweet in life to the 
married man. The men that wedge themselves 
around Sara now are harmless. To them she 
is interestingly indifferent. After marriage 
every man will assume gigantic proportions. I 
shall look upon him with a husband’s eye, and 


A MODERN SINNER. 


241 


will infer he is my wife’s property. My one 
object in life will be to make a conquest of my 
wife. I shall never wholly succeed — at least I 
shall not think so — for Sara is not constant. 
When I asked her if she had ever been in love 
she told me ‘yes,’ she had worshiped an 
ideal which gradually grew clay feet. When 
I asked her if she still remained true to the 
ideal, she replied, ‘she was faithless to the 
ideal, but true to the clay feet.’ I am sorry she 
has not fancied herself infatuated many times. 
It would be as I did in my golden days of 
‘ gilded youth,’ pour away my champagne as 
waste until I reached the heart of the bottle. 
In just such a fashion would I wish Sara had 
frittered away drops of affection, so I who would 
be an epicure in love might win the mellow, 
golden heart of such a woman. ” 

“ Dick, you talk like a stupid book I once 
read.” 

“I will wager you have done more for me 
than you did for the book — you have cut me.” 

“ But not shut you up.” 


242 


A MODERN SINNER. 


“ Yery true.” 

“ Shall I tell you what Yildimarre said about 
you?” 

“ Decidedly, it might prove a novelty.” 

“ She assured me that she had invited Sara 
to visit her, as she intended she should become 
your wife.” 

“ How agreeable ! ” 

“ And that she herself was not the least bit 
in love with you, but I think otherwise.” 

“ Your candor is delicious. The baronne is 
too feline in her disposition for me to trust her 
as implicitly as you do. I regret it, but I must 
cut our talk short. I am to meet a man at the 
club at twelve. Barbarous hour. Cannot under- 
stand why it was invented. What is your 
destination ? Let me put you in a hansom” — 
hailing one. 

“Thank you, please do. I am off to the 
dressmaker’s,” giving the address. “ Oh, by 
the way, will you join us in our box at the 
Horse Show to-night?” 

“You are very kind, I have accepted an- 
other invitation.” 


A MODEEN SINNEE. 


243 


“ The baronne’s ? ” raising her crescent 
shaped eyebrows. 

“ Possibly. Let me come to-morrow. J ames 
handles his own four-in-hand to-night, does he 
not? Thought he was to be one of the 
judges ? ” 

“ 1^0, General Banker takes his place.” 

“ How is that cipher — your husband ? ” 

“ James is busy battling with the financial 
question. He is the ‘ways and means’ com- 
mittee of one. KecoUect you join us to- 
morrow. We shall have some smart women 
in our party. Au revoirP 


When Gerome sauntered into the Baronne 
Yitioz’s box at the Horse Show that night, one 
of the women showed her milky teeth and 
gave him a pretty welcome. It was his hostess 
that was so flatteringly cordial. 

The younger woman that sat at her side gave 
him a mute welcome that was more eloquent 
than all the baronne’s charming speeches. Sara 
had been strangely distrait until he had come, 


244 


A MODERN SINNER. 


paying but scant attention to the men who 
came to have the pleasure of perhaps speaking 
only a word to her. Still less attention did 
she pay to the vast throng of people who 
passed and re-passed, and turned to stare at the 
faultless beauty of the girl. As Gerome turns 
to speak to her she lifts her face eagerly to his, 
when a look of agony comes over it, as leaning 
on the edge of the box she gazes into the 
kaleidoscopic crowd. Was it only her imagina- 
tion that made her fancy she saw the familiar, 
grotesque figure of the man who called her 
“ wife ? ” She hardly hears Gerome’s voice, as 
he questions, “ Are you looking for any one in 
particular. Miss Exeter ? ” 

“ No,” with a sigh of relief. “ I only fancied 
I saw some one I knew.” 

“ How fortunate he or she must be to arouse 
so much interest in you.” 

“ Stop, that remark was purely mechanical ; 
say something more original or I shall turn my 
back on you and talk to Mr. Hargous. He is 
interesting the baronne.” 


A MODERN SINNED. 


245 


She has regained her composure, but the 
baronne has not been as interested as 
Sara imagines. While pretending to listen 
to Mr. Hargous, she is wondering why Sara’s 
face had so suddenly flushed and paled ; she 
had seen the strained look. “ It could not have 
been whatEichard has said to her,” she thinks, 
for she has heard his remark at the time. 
“There is some one of whose existence I 
know nothing, that explains why she does not 
encourage Dick, and mon Dieu, how she 
loves him — I see it to-night.” As the baronne 
turns to welcome a newcomer Sara gives a 
sudden cry as a tall, soldierly man joins 
them. 

“ Papa ! ” she has forgotten she may be the 
observed of all observers as she rapturously 
welcomes her father. 

After greeting the baronne and her friends, 
he says, “ I have come to town for a few days 
on business. I called and found you out and 
being informed that you were at the show, 
could not resist the temptation of seeing the 
baronne,” with a courtly bow, “and my 


246 


A MODERN SINNER. 


daughter. Imagine my surprise,” turning to 
her, “ in wending my way over here to hear 
your name at least half a dozen times. You 
have become acquainted rapidly.” 

“Miss Exeter has great beauty. An admir- 
ing public wants no other explanation,” Mr. 
Hargous says. 

“ Besides, Miss Exeter’s picture being on ex- 
hibition makes one naturally anxious to see the 
original,” Gerome adds. 

“ Bah,” thinks the baronne, “ totally eclipsed 
by this girl. What a huge fool 1 was to bring 
her to town; matters could not have been 
worse if I had left her in that stuffy mountain 
village.” 

“Yes, Sara wrote me about the picture,” 
the major is saying. “ By the way, I thought 
I saw Stamboul this evening ; if I did not know 
he was abroad I would swear he passed me.” 

Again the baronne notes the droop of the 
girl’s petal-like lips. 

“ Bozhe moi ! I have it, the artist. He has 
some power ; ” and she proceeds to make a cap- 
tive of the major. 


A MODERN SINNER, 


247 


CHAPTEE YII. 

“ I have looked on a face that has looked in my heart, 
As deep as the moon ever fathoms a wave.” 

The baronne was, in a measure right, when 
she had said Sara adored her father, but she 
should have added “ at times.” She had sud- 
den bursts of affection for him. What pleas- 
ure she might have experienced at seeing him 
was swallowed up in the paramount emotion — 
fear that Gilbert Stamboul had returned to the 
city. Her brief taste of absolute freedom had 
been sweet to her. She was trying day by 
day to forget the inevitable hour must come 
when she must return to Stamboul as his wife. 
The publicity of her marriage had for her an 
unspeakable dread. The men who daily met 
and admired her in society thought her cold : 
to some that was an attraction. Eichard 
Gerome appealed to her more than any man 


248 


A MODERN SINNER. 


she had met. The sight of his sleek, dark head, 
his muscular, well-formed hand would give her 
a sujbtle thrill that could never have been 
awakened in her had she seen him commit a 
noble action. The affinity Gerome might 
have for her was purely a physical one. The 
time of her marriage to Gilbert had been a 
crisis. The fight between the spiritual and 
physical in her nature had commenced. The 
former would have predominated had not 
every nerve in her body vibrated with loath- 
ing at the sudden sight of so hideous a per- 
sonality as the man she had married. The 
easy, luxuriant, pleasure-seeking life was hav- 
ing its influence. She was a healthy woman 
throbbing with animal spirits, and when she 
loved it would be through the senses. 

The hours after they returned from the horse 
show were a round of monotonous moments to 
Sara. Sleepless she tosses on her bed, wondering 
if she had really caught a glimpse of her hus- 
band. If he had returned surely the daily 
papers would chronicle the fact. At daybreak 


A MOBBUN SINNEU. 


249 


she arose and ran ’for them. Eagerly she 
scanned the arrivals at the hotels. Gilbert 
StambouFs name was not among them. As 
the baronne and she drove in the park that 
morning, the Russian said, skillfully, “ Sara, I 
have never seen your portrait at the Academy. 
Suppose we go there. It closes shortly.” 

“ As 3^ou please, certainly.” 

‘‘ Your father said he thought he saw the 
artist. Did he not ? ” 

“ Yes,” Sara palely assents. 

“Yet you thought him abroad. Possibly he 
has returned to see about the disposal of his 
work.” 

“ You seem to take it for granted he has re- 
turned, baronne?” 

“ Ah, she is clever, this girl,” thinks the 
baronne. “ She is not to be so easily trapped. 
I shall try a direct shot.” 

“ He is a great friend of yours, I under- 
stand,” looking her directly in the eyes. 

“ A very great friend,” returning the look 
unflinchingly. 


250 


A MODERN SINNER. 


“ Bah, she is too deep. I am going around 
in a vicious circle,” and she gives her coach- 
man orders to drive to Seventy-third Street. 
‘‘ Perhaps I can find out more when I see the 
picture. What is the meaning of the hold this 
artist has upon her ? Perhaps after all Rich- 
ard cannot win her,” she thinks to herself. 

It was not a difficult matter to find Gilbert 
Stamboul’s picture. It had been well hung 
in the middle of the gallery. The two women 
stand silently before it. One is thinking 
“ The artist has painted the girl’s very soul.” 
The other is striving to overcome the con- 
fiicting emotions the portrait produces. This 
was the picture she had never seen, painted 
while she was blind — although she is familiar 
with its counterpart that her husband had 
given to her aunt. She is comparing the two, 
when it strikes her in a fiash, the picture is 
not as she was, but as she is. Yet the posture, 
the tints, are identical in the two different 
works. Yes, there is Gilbert’s name in the 
corner with the date it was finished. 


A MODERN SINNER. 


251 


The very gown seemed to have a more 
modish look. The expression of the eyes is 
different. The corners of the mouth have a 
more supercilious look. Why had Gilbert 
changed it so, and put it before the public ? 
She stands almost dazed until the baronne 
criticises : 

“ The picture has not been over praised. I 
should say he was a poor portrait painter, but 
a magnificent artist. I believe America has 
lived to see a second Greuze. There is an ex- 
pression in the portrait I have never seen in 
your face. Sara, to me it is unnatural. You 
have not changed much in two years with 
that exception,” and the baronne levels her 
lorgnettes on some of the adjacent pictures, 
while Sara sinks down on the couch in front 
of her own portrait, and as she looked its 
powers seemed to eat into her very intellect. 
With a sudden cry she rushed near to it. 
The baronne turned sharply, hastening toward 
the girl. 

“ What is the trouble ? ” 


252 


A MODBUJV SINN'EB. 


Nothing, baronne ; as I got up from the 
sofa I gave my ankle a twist,” she replies, stil) 
keeping her eyes on the portrait, and trying to 
control herself with almost superhuman effort. 
No, there was no mistake this time. The lips 
in the portrait seemed to assume a hideous ex- 
pression of insincerity, and as she looks a spirit 
of madness enters her heart. What subtle, 
weird power had Gilbert Stamboul painted into 
the picture ? This was not the age of miracles. 
It was preposterous to imagine a portrait in 
the very heart of New York possessed a magi- 
cal influence, she reasons. It is only the effect 
of an overwrought imagination. She is thank- 
ful when the baronne returns to her side and 
says briskly : “You Americans are a wonder- 
ful nation, you are such extremists, you either 
do things marvelously well or distressingly 
bad. What other nation in the world would 
put together such masterpieces and such flimsy 
daubs? Well, have you discovered anything 
in your portrait you do not like ? ” 

“ Yes,” answers Sara, “ there has been an 
evolution,” 


A MODERN SINNER. 


253 


“ Ah, that is well, for that, like experience 
and food, never go out of fashion. Which re- 
minds me we must hasten back to luncheon. 
I have invited monsieur, your father, to join 
us.’’ 

“ That was kind of you, baronne.” 

“ It is not diflBcult to be kind to you, 
goluhtchik,''’ she replies sweetly. The baronne 
is in a bad temper when she uses endearments 
in her native tongue, and she is in a very bad 
one at present, for the portrait has betrayed 
nothing to her. 

After luncheon the Eussian makes a plausi- 
ble excuse to leave her guests alone. As she 
leaves she suggests, “ Sara, when you feel so 
inclined come to my room.” 

The combined influence of a succulent bit of 
ptarmigan and numerous glasses of Madeira has 
served to put the major in a genial, communi- 
cative mood. His daughter wonders what new 
financial scheme had brought her father to 
Hew York. She is not left long in ignorance 
as the major helps himself to a cigar from the 


251 


A MODERN SINNER. 


box the butler has obligingly set at his 
elbow. 

“ Sara,” he commences, “ I suppose you 
would like to know the reason I have for com- 
ing to New York so much sooner than I ex- 
pected,” taking a puff with keen enjoyment, 
“ This time I shall make our fortunes.” 

That remark is a staple one of her father’s. 
All her life each new project he had told her 
of had that verbalism tacked on. 

“ Yes? ” smiling encouragingly. “ What is it 
now ? ” 

“ I am forming a stock company, of which I 
am the treasurer. You may remember meet- 
my old friend. Colonel Clark of Boston, when 
you were a little girl ? ” 

“ Distinctly.” 

“ Well, he is the president of this company. 
We have gotten hold of an entirely new line 
of business. I shall not tell you what it is at 
present. Colonel Clark offered me an inter- 
est in it if I would get a certain amount of 
capital. I have done so. Day before yester- 


A MODERN SINNER. 


255 


day I saw Mr. Gerome. I had an appoint- 
ment to meet him at his club at twelve. I 
succeeded in getting him interested and he has 
given me his check for $3,600.” 

This piece of information annoys her. It is 
humiliating to think her father should go to 
Eichard Gerome for financial aid. The major 
gla'nces uneasily at his daughter, as he ex- 
pected she would disapprove of the project. 

“Papa,” she replies gravely, “Mr. Gerome 
must think it rather ofiicious of you to go to 
him on such an errand. He was only a sum- 
mer acquaintance ! ” She knows the sum is a 
trifle to a man of Gerome’s wealth. He has 
treated her father as an object of charity. 

“ Honsense, I am doing him the favor. We 
will make millions out of it. I leave for Bos- 
ton to-morrow to turn this money over to 
Clark. When we are rolling in riches perhaps 
you will be sorry you spoke as you have,” 
petulantly. “ I should think my own daughter 
would give me some encouragement.” 

This mood of his is not a new one to her. 


256 


A MODERN SINNER, 


With a sigh Sara puts her arms around her 
father’s neck. 

“ Papa, dear, I am ready to give you encour- 
agement, but I do not want you to forget that 
you are a gentleman, and what you have done 
sounds a little mercenary. Noblesse oblige^ 
you know,” with an effort to be cheerful. 

“ You do not understand these things, Sara, 
women never do, but business is business, and 
that reminds me I have an engagement at half 
past three.” Thrusting his hand into his 
pocket he drew out a crimson velvet jewel 
case. “ I have a little gift for the baronne ; I 
had almost forgotten it. I bought it for you 
to give to your kind hostess.” 

It proved to be a quaint gold vinaigrette 
thickly encrusted with chrysoberyl and Indian 
turquoise. 

“ Kather novel, is it not ? I picked it up for 
a song at an auction in Philadelphia last week. 
Here, take it, I must be off. I will see you 
before you go to the opera this evening. Make 
my adieux again to the baronne. . Good-by, my 
daughter.” 


A MODURJSr SINNER. 


257 


As soon as the major had left the house Sara 
went hastily to her room. Quickly she goes 
to the mirror and looks at her face. Had she 
ever looked like the portrait ? 

Surely the reflection in the glass shows the 
face of as pure and as good a woman as God 
ever created. There was no reflection that 
showed her conscience. Opening her dressing 
table drawer she takes the envelope that Gilbert 
Stamboul had given her and tears the inner 
covering open. l^ervously she counts the 
money. There is two thousand dollars in one 
hundred dollar bills. 

I wonder if that amount would buy the 
picture. I would not be really taking Gilbert’s 
money, only returning it, for what ought to be 
my own property,” putting the contents and 
envelope hastily back, as some one knocks dis- 
creetly at the door. A maid enters with a 
card, which, as she takes it from the tray, she 
sees bears the inscription, Mr. Richard 
Gerome.” As she descends to the drawing- 
room, Gerome comes to meet her eagerly. 


258 


A MODERN SINNEE. 


His Uase manner seems to be a thing of the 
past. 

“ Am I going to have the good fortune of 
seeing you alone ? ’’ 

“ I believe the baronne is taking a nap. As 
I passed her door I could hear no sound, so 
the logical conclusion is we will be alone,” 
trying to cover up the embarrassment she feels 
at the prospect of a tete-d-Ute with him. 

“As usual it was impossible to get more 
than a word with you last evening at the Yan 
Courtlandts, so I have come at this unearthly 
hour, to have a few minutes’ conversation.” 

“ Shall I time you ? ” demurely. 

“ Please do not. I feel my whole life is to 
be squeezed into this quart d^heure, which I 
suppose will consist of tantalizing minutes,” 
with an unsteady laugh. “ Sara, this sort of 
thing must stop. It is killing me. Yes, I 
know I look vigorous. Last evening you re- 
fused Billy Bunker. I saw him at the 
Knickerbocker this morning. A man does not 
look as he does unless he has been hard hit. I 


A MoDMAr SmNM. 


259 


know you care for me, but you have not per- 
haps told me so in just those words. But the 
tone of your voice, your eyes, your manner, 
have been a sweet confession. I am not going 
to be put off with any confounded nonsense — I 
beg your pardon — as your saying you do not 
wish to marry ! A day or so ago I thought 
the very idea of a pursuit of this sort charming. 
One’s ideas often change over night. To-day 
I am wretched ; every man that meets you is 
willing to sacrifice his life for you. Every- 
thing you say or do has an indescribable charm. 
You never disillusion a man. Sara, do not tell 
me your beauty has only the brilliancy of ice. 
Let me believe a woman’s heart beats in your 
breast. I want a definite understanding — 
answer me — do you love me ? ” huskily. 

I shall not answer you.” 

“ Sara,” taking hold of her wrist roughly, 
‘‘ I am not .some callow youth to be coquetted 
with in this fashion. You are either an arrant 
flirt or a very deep woman. In either case 
you are trifling with me in a very crude 
fashion.” 


260 


A MODERN SINNER. 


“ I am neither, Mr. Gerome, and that accu- 
sation is unwarrantable.” 

“ Forgive me, I hated to believe you are like 
the women one is constantly meeting in 
society, but,” sapiently, “ this is not the third 
act of a melodrama when the heroine drags 
people through hours of misery. This is not 
the day of family feuds, secret marriages.” 
Something in her face makes him say more 
slowly, “ Gossip generally finds that out.” 

“ ]^o, I agree with you, such things rarely 
exist now. Will you trust and believe in me ? ” 
she almost whispers. “I will tell you just 
what I mean some day. I cannot now.” 

“ I do believe in you. God, Sara, how you 
have wound yourself around my heart. 
Well,” closing his lips firmly, ‘‘it shall be as 
you wish. Good-by,” almost recklessly he 
throws on his overcoat, snatches his hat and 
stick and departs. 

Motionless she stands in the middle of the 
room, trying to analyze her feelings toward 
the man she had asked to believe in her. She 


A SINNBR. 


261 


is vaguely conscious she would give a blow of 
supreme pain to this man, if she was to tell 
him she did not love him. With a desperate 
hope of getting rid of her thoughts she goes to 
the baronne. Her ladyship is lost in the 
depths of an easy-chair, clad in a scarlet silk 
smoking jacket, with a cigarette between her 
teeth. 

“ Ingrate, you have deserted me.” 

“Hot intentionally. Papa’s adieu was of 
long duration. He left a little gift for you. 
Pardon me a moment and I will get it.” 

“ Charming, but did you not just come from 
your room ? ” 

“Ho,” reluctantly. “Mr. Gerome called 
for a few moments. I was in the drawing- 
room.” 

“ Ah,” mendaciously. 

“ He wished to be remembered to you,” she 
replies, wondering if she is telling the truth or 
not. 

“Indeed. Do not trouble to go to your 
room. Send Maria. Will you not join me?” 
offering the box of cigarettes. 


262 


A MOD ERN StNNER. 


“ Thank you, no,” gravely. “ With you it 
is a custom, with me it would be an affectation.” 

Mon am% we are all savages, our habits, our 
luxuries, our customs, are all affectations, and 
are correspondingly deep rooted in proportion 
to the number of grandmothers we can count. 
An affectation of several generations is called a 
custom. Perhaps in Kussia we have more 
than others. Cigarettes ruin our tempers and 
sharpen our wits. Do you see that villainous 
little toilet requisite % ” pointing to an odd- 
shaped cut-glass bottle with a silver tube on 
her dressing table. “ That is our latest 
cachet^ that is the last weakness of the Kus- 
sian women. We inject perfume under our 
delicate flesh with this little hypodermatic in- 
strument of torture ; ” taking it up carelessly 
she hands it to Sara who gazes at it curiously. 
“ I see you think it is a barbarous fad. So it 
is. But we Eussians love cruelty. We are 
born in a luxury that does not effeminate our 
men or weaken our women. Luxury that may 
be snatched from us at any moment, because 


A SINNER. 


263 


we do not raise an eyebrow to the proper 
height, or we may casually remark about the 
ever-changing color of a dearest friend’s back 
hair, which may be misconstrued into a 
Nihilistic threat. We may commence our life 
in a palace and end it on the steppes. Do you 
wonder we are cruel ? Bah, we are cruel from 
the moment as babes we bite at our mother’s 
breasts ! NHmporte, How can all this interest 
you? Let me see the gift monsieur, your 
father, has brought me.” 

As Sara hands her the vinaigrette with its 
gleam of green and blue the baronne forgets her 
impulsive speech, and regards the present with 
admiring eyes. 

“ Your father knows how to choose a gift 
that will please a woman.” 

Taking a perfume flask from the table she 
commences to pour some of its contents into 
the vinaigrette. 

‘‘ Bien^ it is already fllled,” inhaling the con- 
tents. “ I must find out where this extract was 
purchased,” 


264 


A MODERN SINNER, 


“ Baronne,” said Sara suddenly, “ I want you 
to inject some of that perfume for me.” 

“You want to see how much a Kussian 
will suffer to make herself attractive? I 
think myself it is a dangerous practice, 
perhaps a questionable one. I do not 
advise you to try it,” indifferently, “ unless you 
are in search of a new sensation. However, 
as you please, only I warn you it is as bad a 
habit as opium-eating.” 

“ I do not suppose I shall try it again,” 
Sara replies wearily. She hardly knows why 
she insists. 

“Maria,” the baron ne is saying, “hand me 
that bottle of attar of rose.” 

“ Why not the perfume in the vinaigrette ? ” 
Sara demands. 

“ But you do not know what that is ! ” 

“ I know I like the odor.” 

“That is not sufficient. Koll up your 
sleeve,” filling the bulb-like appendage. * As 
she puts the tube to Sara’s flesh she feels a 
sharp, quick pain, and the baronne says, “ I 


A MODBUJSr SINNER. 


265 


injected a very small amount of perfume, with 
a tenth of a grain of morphine that is com- 
bined with it for medicinal reasons. That is less 
than half of a regular injection, it cannot pos- 
sibly hurt you. ISTow, go to your room and 
fling away your sachet bags, and your cologne 
bottles ; you will be as fragrant as a rose for 
the next week.” 

As Sara excuses herself to the baronne on 
the plea of being tired, she says, “ That little 
toilet article of yours could inject poison as 
well, baronne \ ” 

‘‘ Surely, but who talks of poisons in the 
nineteenth century ? The Borgia is out of 
date.” 

“ To be sure,” her guest replies with a light 
laugh. “ Only the thing has impressed me as 
uncanny.” 


266 


A MODBUJV’ SINNER. 


OHAPTEE YIII. 

“ Mercy, cried each, if I was to tell the truth of a pas- 
sage in my youth .” — Robert Browning. 

The injection had just sufficient morphine to 
send her into a gentle sleep, from which she 
awoke in time to dress for dinner, much 
refreshed. She is almost inclined to laugh at 
what must have been a hallucination of the 
brain. Possibly Gilbert had considered the 
alterations he had made in his portrait more 
artistic. She would go the next morning to 
the Academy to make a more thorough inves- 
tigation. But the more she thought of it the 
more convinced she was that her fears were 
not unfounded. By the time she went down 
to dinner she was in the same nervous, excit- 
able frame of mind that she had been in the 
afternoon. That night at the opera, the face 


A MOD EBN SINNER. 


267 


of the portrait seemed to stare at her through 
the glare of the footlights. She felt as if she 
had committed some hideous, heinous crime 
that was following her Kemesis-like. The fol- 
lowing morning after makir^, some excuse to 
the baronne, she went hastily to the Art 
Gallery, threw down her entrance fee at the 
box office, and walked rapidly to the picture 
entitled, ‘‘On the Threshold of Womanhood.” 
She draws her breath with a quick, convulsive 
sob, while her heart almost stops beating. It 
was not the imagination of a feverish brain. 
The portrait had changed since yesterday. The 
eyes looked larger, while the shadows beneath 
the eyes, like faint bruises, seemed to tell of 
the sleepless night she had spent. Instead of 
the faint glow of pink there had been on the 
cheeks of the picture yesterday the color 
burned like two red balls of fire. The eyes 
looked into her own with the questioning 
eagerness she felt must be in her face. The 
expressions of deceit, of insincerity, were more 
plainly marked. Was this loathsome picture 


268 


A MODMUJ^ SINNER. 


going to act as her conscience? Was it going 
to tell the world of her life with a secret of 
which she was ashamed? Would it tell the 
world of her life of selfishness, egotism and 
heartlessness ? Yet, was she worse than many 
women one may meet daily in society? We 
call them charming women, good sisters, 
daughters, or wives, perhaps not making a 
noble use of their lives, but at least there is no 
glaring, revolting fault to make us turn from 
them in disgust. But if these very women, 
who charm us by their beauty or amiability, 
could have the power to show to the world 
their petty faults, would they not shrink with 
the same uncontrollable fear that Sara Exeter 
did when brought face to face with her own 
conscience? If nature portrayed with the 
same faithfulness in our faces the weakness of 
our life, would we not find ourselves among 
fellow creatures whose moral scrofula would 
make us flee them? To Sara the portrait 
which spoke to her so plainly of petty lies, 
deceits, selfish actions and motions, unfaithful- 


A MODERN SINNER. 


269 


ness in thought to her husband, filled her with 
as great a shame as if the word “ murderess ” 
was on the little gilded slab of wood instead of 
the faintly poetic title. With an agony of 
remorse, she saw her young life as it was, an 
endless chain of what would seem insignificant 
faults to the world, who day by day come 
face to face with wickedness of the lowest 
form. For days she would stay away from 
the Academy, plunging in the Avorld with its 
gayeties, in the hopes of ridding herself of the 
sorcery in the picture. 

But no matter where she was or what she 
was doing the faint outline of the portrait was 
ever before her. She might raise a glass of 
the youthful and vivacious Widow Cliquot to 
her lips, she might turn her eyes carelessly to 
the huge pile of dainty favors that had been 
offered her in the cotillion, or shake out a fold 
of her gown, that seemed as spotless as herself, 
but the recollection of the evil in the portrait 
would remind her of her hollow, frivolous life. 
In a spirit of desperation she had tried to see 


270 


A MODERN SINNER. 


if the picture would as faithfully portray her 
virtues as well as her faults. One morning, 
while the baronne entertained some callers, 
Sara had quietly slipped out of the house and 
walked quickly down Fifth Avenue until she 
saw an old and bent woman who had often 
offered her lead pencils for a few pennies. 
Walking up to the woman, she said quickly, 
“ Here take this,” handing her a bill, out of her 
purse, “ of course, you have an invalid husband 
and a dozen small children. Give me your ad- 
dress,” and while the astonished beggar mum- 
bled out something about “ Avenue A, fifth 
floor,” noting the address in her memorandum 
book and with a promise to come and see the 
woman, she quickly jumped into a down-town 
stage. She alighted at Twenty-third Street, 
and walked rapidly to the Academy. Eagerly 
she sought the picture with the hope she might 
see “ charity ” on the lips, but one sickening 
look told her it was “ hypocrisy ” the picture 
showed. Thus the days would go by. She 
had given up the idea of buying the picture. 


A MODERN SINNER. 


271 


There had been no price mentioned in the cata- 
logue, so she had written to one of the directors 
she had met at the baronne’s, saying a friend 
wished to purchase the picture for two thousand 
dollars. The reply was as she had expected. 
“ The portrait was not for sale.” At last the 
exhibition was closed. She then thought at 
least part of her trouble was over. The work 
with its fiendish power would be taken from 
the world. But her hopes were of short dura- 
tion. The picture was again on exhibition at 
the Associated Artists. She then came to the 
conclusion that Gilbert Stamboul had ordained 
her year of liberty shojild be one of cruel- 
est torture as well. She had given up all idea 
that he was in any way instrumental in its 
ever-changing expressions. Had she not gone 
at all hours to watch, and see if the portrait 
was in any way tampered with ? One day she 
had seen a man putting on a coat of what he 
assured her was varnish. Still the incident 
was sufficient to create theories. 

In a moment of despair she had telegraphed 


272 


A SINNER. 


for the portrait Gilbert had given her aunt. 
When it arrived by express a few days after, 
the fairness and beauty of the one only served to 
emphasize the moral corruption of the other. 
The baronne’s carelessly introduced subject of 
perfume had proved to be a baneful one. 
The perfume with its harmless amount of 
morphine was often injected to banish painful 
thoughts, and restless, sleepless hours. Hut 
the baronne’s dose was being doubled and 
trebled. 

Before the winter was over, her father’s 
business enterprise proved a success. ‘‘The 
Consolidated Patent Fickle Company ” began 
to coin money. Major Exeter on half-pay was 
a different man from Major Exeter, the treas- 
urer of an immense business concern. Men 
who had admired Sara for her beauty, found 
their ranks increased when she was spoken of 
as an heiress. How old and young laid their 
brand-new or battered hearts at her suede kid 
slippers ! 

As for Kichard Gerome he had contented 


A MODERIf SINEER. 


273 


himself with her promise. He rarely saw her 
alone, as it was evident that she disliked a 
conversation unchaperoned. It was next to 
impossible to see her without the baronne. 
Her ladyship was beginning to convince her- 
self that her jealous pangs were futile ones. 
Mrs. Westervelt’s attitude toward the girl her 
brother so madly loved was not one of stony 
dignity. The financial change in Major 
Exeter’s affairs had shown her the folly of 
standing in the way of her brother, to win a 
woman who was considered the purest type of 
American loveliness, and possessing a father 
who was in a fair way to leave her a fortune. 
Society had accepted Sara Exeter as it had ac- 
cepted anything else that gives it pleasure — as 
a matter of course. It was whispered in wom- 
en’s boudoirs, and in the club windows of 
men, that she was eccentric. She had cer- 
tainly been known to do peculiar things, but the 
notoriety of her marvelous beauty only served 
to make those stories more piquant. Those 
who had met her in the first month of her 


A MODERN SINNER. 


debut and had complained of her Puritan-like 
manner, before the winter was over admired 
her for paganism. Her movements had a dash, 
a recklessness that bewitched the men and 
puzzled the women. On one occasion when she 
was one of a favored few invited to join a house 
party for the Christmas holidays, at Mrs. 
Westervelt’s summer home on the Hudson, she 
had given way to the dare devil impulse that 
sometimes burned within her. The incident 
was a trivial one, but, nevertheless, significant. 
As Hargous, who was as ever an ardent 
admirer, had attempted to help her to some 
“ claret cup,” in awkwardly handing the glass 
to her, it had slipped and fallen with a crash. 
Before he had time to turn to get another, 
Sara had said : “ Here is an improvised wine 
glass ” — and in a second she had slipped off 
her dainty foot its little slipper of red satin 
and handed it to him, which he calmly filled 
and drank from. ‘‘ It matches the beverage 
nicely, does it not ? ” she had questioned. 

“ Bather, what a jolly loving cup it makes,” 
had been Hargous’ sentimental answer. 


A MODEHN SINNER. 


m 


“ I believe the contents have gone to your 
head. Take care, you are now responsible for 
my sole.” With an indifferent shrug of her 
shoulders she had returned the gaze of some 
horrified matrons. That night she took just 
double her usual dose of morphine before 
retiring. 


276 


A MODERN SINNER. 


CHAPTEE IX. 

“Destructive, damnable, deceitful woman.” 

When summer again came Sara went back 
to her old home at Alden, which her father 
had refurnished and laid out the grounds to 
suit his daughter. A dainty summer home, 
with well-kept lawns, had risen phoenix-like 
from the little country hotel. Mrs. Laurel had 
taken the cares of housekeeping from her 
niece’s shoulders, so Sara was always at liberty 
to play the role of hostess, to the many acquaint- 
ances whose hospitality she had accepted dur- 
ing the winter. September has come again, 
with its mellow sunsets, its brilliant- hued 
foliage, but to Sara it only tells of a misspent 
year that is drawing to a close. Gilbert had 
been faithful to his promise, not a word had 
she received from him. But the certainty he 
would claim her was inevitable. Before she 


A MODERN SINNER. 


277 


had left the city the terror in the thought of 
having the change in her portrait discovered 
increased as the alteration became more 
noticeable. Month after month it had been 
kept on exhibition in the very center of I^ew 
York, yet no one had spoken to her of the 
change. Possibly, after the critics had seen it 
once, they thought it unnecessary to so much 
as glance at it again. Her own personal 
friends were not the ones to follow art exhibits 
so she felt her horrible secret safe. The baronne 
would often look at her in dismay and wonder 
if the influence of her cynicism could have 
wrought, in so short a time, so harmful an effect. 
Many times Sara had been tempted to tell of 
the whole story, her loathing of the marriage 
that was eating her heart out, of the picture 
whose naked truth had sapped up every emo- 
tion she might have had — to tell her of the 
practice that was rapidly becoming a habit ; for 
morphine had become as necessary to her as 
the very air she breathed, but she had never 
given way to the temptation to tell her secret. 


A MODERir SINNER. 


At the present time she has a large house 
party — the baronne, Mrs. Westervelt, her 
brother, and a dozen others. She has a mor- 
bid inclination to have them with her when 
Gilbert shall claim her. They have just 
finished playing tennis, and are sitting beneath 
the trees to rest. Their conversation is per- 
functory. Gerome is interestedly watching the 
sunlight sift through Sara’s hair. The baronne, 
feeling she cannot stand the frank glare of the 
sun, has discreetly hid herself behind her 
parasol, which is a billow of chiffon, and is 
intently watching the man she still loves 
through its transparent meshes. Hargous, 
who is sitting at her feet, breaks the silence : 

“ What are you thinking of, baronne ? ” 

“ My sins.” 

‘‘ Tell us what they are,” he says ; “ of course 
they are so shocking we will have to shut our 
ears.” 

“ I suppose the}^ are no different from those 
of a thousand other women. We each and all 
have our little gilt-edge pamphlet of the ten 


A MODERN SINNER. 


279 


commandments. We worship God, but look 
carefully and you will see an “ 1 ” inserted in 
that name. We are not blasphemous, for it is 
not ‘ good form.’ We honor our parents when 
it is not a bore. We rest on the Sabbath in a 
distinctly worldly sense. We lie when it is 
embarrassing to tell the truth. We steal noth- 
ing but ideas, but then they are not always 
patented. We bear false witness when our 
dressmaker sues us, or we figure in a divorce 
case. We murder nothing, not even the 
queen’s English. We covet much, principally 
men who are other women’s property.” Her 
remarks are greeted with a laugh by all, except- 
ing Sara. 

“What a gloomy subject you have in- 
troduced,” a pretty girl in blue says. “ Let us 
take a walk.” 

“ Thank you,” replies the baronne, “ next to 
good advice, I detest nice long walks in the 
same way I do crying babies — and surprises. 
I hope that is not one,” pointing to a boy from 


280 


A SmNER. 


the village coming across the lawn with a yel- 
low envelope in his hand. 

“ What — a crying baby ? ” 

No, a surprise, in the form of a telegram.” 

No one notices the color has faded from 
Sara’s face, leaving it ashen. As the boy hands 
it to her, she tears the envelope open nervously. 
It contained the brief sentence, “ I will be with 
you this evening about ten. G. S.” 

She tried to say carelessly, “ It is a guest I 
have been expecting. He will not arrive until 
after dinner. Pardon me a moment. I 
wish to tell my aunt to have a room ready.” 
She was not absent very long, but if some one 
had been curious and followed her, he would 
have seen it was just long enough to take a pe- 
culiar-shaped instrument from among the silver 
toilet articles in her room. She pushes aside 
a heavy bangle of Egyptian gold, which she 
wears just below the elbow, where the flesh is 
thickly covered with small red spots as if they 
were punctures of some sharp needle. In a 
second she has carefully measured and injected 


A MODERN SINNER. 


281 


something into her arm. When she rejoins 
her guests her manner is collected, and a shade 
more spirited than is her wont to be. The 
baronne and Hargous are the only ones who 
do not care to walk. After they leave the 
baronne questions : 

“ Did you ever see any one change as Sara 
has in a year ? ’’ 

“ In one way no, but she is still as distract- 
ingly pretty as she was when I first met her. 
The season has told on her perhaps. She looks 
much frailer. To me she is a faultily faultless 
beauty. There is no warmth in either her face 
or manner. I think it is absolutely impossible 
to touch her heart — for she has none,” Har- 
gous replies, despondently. 

“ If you had known her before she came to 
Hew York you would have said she was noth- 
ing but heart. At that time her father was 
only on half-pay. I believe she had some 
Quixotic notions of earning her own living at 
some time. I invited her to spend the winter 
with me, as I wished to see what influence 


282 


A MODERN SINNER. 


social life would have in a girl peculiarly 
original and high spirited as she was. You 
know of her father’s luck financially. Natu- 
rally that has had its infiuence. She has 
changed — and not in the way I expected.” 


A MOJ)mjy SmNBR.. 


283 


CHAPTEK X. 

“ Oh, who, 

Foreknowing, ever chose a fate like this ? 

What woman, out of all the breathing world, 

Would be a woman, could her heart select ? 

Or love her lover, could her life prevent ? ” 

About nine o’clock that evening, Sara stands 
in the same room in which she had decided 
such a monientous question a year ago. Xone 
of the original furnishings of the room remain 
excepting the crayon sketch of Gilbert Stam- 
boul. Xow, the room is a blaze of light, and 
soft warmth — a room that has been adorned 
by a woman with extravagant tastes. To- 
night she has gowned herself with more than 
usual care, in soft heliotrope, with a knot of 
fine opals at her breast. A dagger set with 
the same passionate stones secures her hair. 
Her toilette suits her rather heroic style of 
beauty. She stands looking at the time-piece 


284 


A MODERN SINNER. 


with its dainty Cupids who so smilingly hold 
garlands of roses around the face of the clock, 
whose hands point to nine o’clock. In a few 
seconds steps are heard in the hallway. 
Swiftly she passes into her bedroom, from 
which she issues again as a knock is heard. 
She opens the door to admit Eichard Gerome. 

“ I wished to see you alone, that is why I 
asked you to come to my sitting-room,” she 
explains briefly, turning the key of the door in 
its lock. 

Gerome stands visibly embarrassed. If he 
had seen a trace of softness in her manner, if 
she had met him with less self-possession, he 
would have thought it some girlish whim, 
which would lead up to the avowal of a love 
he knew existed for him, but which she had 
never declared. 

The mood he finds her in is absolutely un- 
intelligible to him. 

“ Will you be seated,” she says ceremoniously, 
as he settles himself into one of the chairs. 
He waits patiently to see what new phase of 


A MODERN SINNER. 


285 


her character will show itself. In all she is 
equally lovable to him. 

“ I want to tell you something about my- 
self,” she begins. “ For once I hope you will 
forgive me for being egotistical.” 

“ I could forgive you anything.” 

‘‘Anything? Wait until you hear what I 
have to say.” Drawing her breath as if she was 
making a desperate effort of some sort, she 
again commences : “ Three years ago, I was 

totally blind. No doubt the baronne told you 
that. At the time I met Gilbert Stamboul, 
who painted my portrait. At the last sitting 
he told me he loved me. It does not matter 
what my feelings were for him. It is sufficient 
to say that in a few weeks he had secured the 
services of an oculist who restored my sight. 
Overcome with gratitude I consented to marry 
him. The day after the operation a priest 
from a neighboring town made us man and 
wife. The oculist was the only witness, and 
he alone knows the secret.” 

Gerome has made no sign that he is in any 


286 


A MODERN SINNER. 


way affected by what she has told him, only 
the lines in his face seem deeper. 

“ The day after we were married the band- 
ages were taken from my eyes. Can you not 
understand how a girl of my temperament 
would turn from such a man with loathing 
pointing to the sketch on the wall. 

Gerome does not turn, but keeps his half" 
closed eyes on Sara’s face. 

“For two years I Avas that man’s wife in 
name only. He never asked me to be more. 
A year ago, for the precious boon of twelve 
months of liberty, I promised to return at 
the end of that time to him, and let the Avorld 
know me as his wife. To-night he will 
come and claim me.” 

With a sudden soft smile she throws back 
her head, the deep passion in her voice making 
her more radiantly lovely than ever. 

“ Eichard, I love you ! Ho, stand there. 
Ho closer ! For a year I have loved you with 
a guilty passion, loved you with so great a 
love I want to put my hand in yours and feel 


A Monsm smmR. 


287 

your strong arms around me and tell you I am 
yours and yours alone, brain, body, heart, 
soul, al], all. I have often prayed for one brief 
day of happiness with you, even if my very 
life was the recompense — to feel out of all 
this world the place by your side is the only 
one for me.’’ 

“And so it shall be. Do you think the 
mumbling of some words of a half idiotic 
priest can keep us apart ? Do you think, lov- 
ing as we do, that we can tell Gilbert Stam- 
boul in a polite dialogue that we care for one 
another, and he will say, ‘Bless you, my 
children V Will you then settle down as his 
wife, and study the cookery book, and will 1 
go back to my club and smoke innumerable 
cigarettes and play four handed whist ? Look 
at this matter calmly. That man is no more 
— not as much to you as I am — for you love 
me. Ah, Sara, do not say you have made me 
worship you, only to send me away. To lose 
you would drive me mad.” 

“ Do not say that. Do you remember, I 
once asked you to believe in me ? ” 


288 


A MODERN SINNER, 


“ Yes.” 

“ I do not know why I asked it. Perhaps it 
was because I could not believe in myself. 
Kichard, you must know me as I am.” 

In a few graphic words she told him of the 
picture which Gilbert Stamboul had painted — 
the picture whose weird power had made her 
life a torture. As she finishes Gerome says 
calmly : 

“ Sara, such a thing is practically impossible. 
It may be a clever spiritualistic trick invented 
by Stamboul to make you believe he has some 
power over you. Why will you imagine your 
life is such a frightful mistake? Gilbert Stam- 
boul will be here to-night. W e will then have 
an explanation.” 

‘‘ Yes, an explanation,” she says dully. 

As Gerome sits with his head bowed in his 
hands, she quickly takes up a hypodermatic 
instrument from among the books and flowers 
on the table. Again she pushes the gold ban- 
gle back, and injects some morphine. As she 
attempts to put it back it falls with a clang to 
the floor. Gerome looks up hastily. 


A MODERN SINNER. 


289 


“ Sara, what have you done ? ” 

“ Taken a lethal dose of morphine.” 

“ Good God ! What do you mean ? ” 

“ Why should I live ? ” 

With a rush he goes to the door. He re- 
members she has locked it. 

‘‘Sara, give me the key!” he demands 
huskily. 

“ While you unlock the door I will take this 
piece of jewelry from my hair,” drawing out 
the jeweled dagger, “and kill myself. You 
will not make that necessary. A coroner’s in- 
quest might prove embarrassing.” 

“ Sara, have pity ? ” 

“ I have none for myself,” bitterly. 

He has thrown open the window calling for 
help and again trying to break down the door. 

“ It is useless ; all the guests have gone to 
Mrs. Field’s garden party. The servants are 
in another part of the house.” 

“How can you torture me so? You com- 
pel me to stand and see the woman I love die 
by inches.” 


290 ^ MODERN SINNER. 

I have been dying by inches for months. 
Nothing but morphine has kept me alive. I 
have taken so much they will not call it suicide, 
but heart failure,” with a grating laugh. 
“ When you go back to New York promise me 
you will get the portrait, and after it has 
told you the weak, faltering story of this year, 
destroy it. Promise me you will destroy it,” 
she asks excitedly. 

“ Oh, my precious one, if you had only told 
me all, this would never have happened.” As 
he attempts to take her in his arms, she waves 
him back. 

No, not now, but when you know that I — 
when all is over, take me in your arms and kiss 
me once, tell him it was the first. Eichard, let 
me die, believing that no man loved as you have 
loved. Promise me you will not call for help.” 

Second by second the little Dresden clock 
ticks out the woman’s life ; together but 
apart, they sit in the light and the luxury, 
while one of them stretches out a feeble, flut- 
tering grasp to the great darkness. Little by 


A moDehn SINJ^ER. 


291 


little the flush fades from her cheeks, and her 
face becomes drawn. At last she falls into a 
state of coma, respiration is suspended. Her 
lips become blue and her frame relaxes. Her 
life, like the bloom of some passion flower, is 
broken at the stem — a life that might have 
been radiant with blossom if harmful influ- 
ences had not robbed it of all its flame-like 
beauty. As the last sigh is breathed, Kichard 
Gerome takes the body of the girl in his arms 
and presses his first kiss on the berry-like 
mouth. Gentl}^, with a bitter pity in his heart, 
he lays her on the couch among the downy 
pillows and mutters : 

“ It is better so.” 

Silently he kneels at her side, trying to re- 
member a prayer he once learned at his 
mother’s knee, and the lights flash on the opals 
on the dead woman’s breast, and they alone 
seem to be the only things that have life in 
that silent room. 


Gilbert Stamboul still paints pictures, but 
none as beautiful as “ On the Threshold of 


292 


A MODERN SINNER. 


Womanhood” — the portrait that was so mysteri- 
ously destroyed. He often takes up his 
palette with a sigh, and questions : 

“ If I had not waited until the last moment 
to tell her I had burned the marriage certificate 
and there was no one living that knew of our 
marriage, and that she was free, free to marry 
the man she loved so well — if I had gone to 
her that night could I have prevented the 
tragedy ? ” 

As for Gerome — Gerome smokes innumera- 
ble cigarettes at the club. 


THE END. 


THE SHADOW OF DESIRE. 


BY 

IXiEITE OSC3-OOU. 

“The Shadow of Desire” is redeemed from being commonplace by the 
character of the heroine. Ruth Bronson is real and worth describing. She 
is an example of what the French describe as ‘7a femme a tefnperament," a 
woman of excellent principles, who is brought into trouble by the undue 
strength of her physical passion. This characteristic, without being offens- 
ively insisted on, is very subtly brought out in the story by constant touches, 
and especially by the part played by the villain in her fortunes. Very effect- 
ive too, is the gradual way in which her frivolous nature is weaned to noble 
aspirations by the unobtrusive devotion and magnanimity of her husband”.. 

‘ Athenceum^ London, Jtdy 1893, 

“The Shadow of Desire is largely a society story, with too strong a 
suggestion of the French novel about it to suit every taste, but it is a work 
of considerable power, and the authoress has given us some cleverly drawn 
sketches of fashionable life. The word painting in places is very good and 
the description of hunting and other country pastimes will commend it to 
many readers. It is to be trusted that the authoress of this rather fascinating- 
little story will favor us with some other works of equal merit”. 

Herts Advertiser, Her t for shire, England, June 24M, 1893. 

We wish we could say as much for the tone of Mrs. J. C. Osgood’s 
new book — it can hardly be a first attempt, though we lack definite knowledge 
to the contrary — as for certain literary qualities which mark its composi- 
tion; for example, those of successful character delineation and, in still high- 
er degree, of graphic narration. These qualities — and they are of course 
all important in the novelist’s art — reveal themselves on almost every page”. 

Hertfordshire Express. Hertfordshire. July 8//z, 1893. 

•‘The Shadow of Desire” is a novel written by an American lady well 
known in English society. The scene is laid both in America and in vari- 
ous countries of Europe, and the characters depicted are said to be portraits 
of some of the leaders of society in the New and Old worlds which will be 
readily recognized by those — who are acquainted with them. 

South American Jotirnal. London^ England, June 11 th, 1893 


“The Shadow of Desire'* is written on the lines of the usual society 
novel, the scene shifting from Europe to America, and every page betraying 
the hand of the Anglo American. The brightness of Paris is contrasted with 
the leaden-colored waves of the North Sea and the lonely beauty of Colorado 
lakes. There is love and beauty, and diamonds and lace, hunting, gambling, 
the tinkle of bells, fascination and disillusions, wonderful flowers and strange 
:->erfumes, mingled with tears that fall hot and fast, and all the orthodox 
Materials that go to make up the modern society novel". 

Decorator and Furnisher, New York^ J uly 1893. 

“The Shadow of Desire" is rather a unique story. The author has 
taken an every day woman and written a story that will while away a leisure 
hour. The writer is realistic in painting her heroine. ^ 

Religio Philosophical Journal. Chicago, July 2%nd, 1893. 

“There is something fresh and unconventional about The Shadow of 
Desire, Ruth is the most unconventional part of the book, and her charac- 
er and the gradual development of her better nature are intensely interesting. 
Few of the women, apparently ever heard of Mrs. Grundy, but although 
there is a worldly atmosphere throughout, it is the worldliness of smar^ 
American and English society as it is in real life, not only in fiction; and it 
is evident that Mrs. Osgood knows what she is talking about. There are 
some charming pictures of society and camping in Colorado, fox hunting in 
England, and life on the Riviera. There is much clever dialogue and 
plenty of thrilling incident of a by no means commonplace order. The 
story is so admirably told that one puts down the volume feeling that the time 
devoted to its perusal has not been wasted. I hope that the book is procura- 
ble in England and that Mrs. Osgood will write another". 

Woman. London, June%\st, 

*‘The Shadow of Desire'^ is a novel by a new and promising American 
writer, Irene Osgood. The Shadow of Desire is the work of a clever wo- 
man. Her power of constructing an interesting plot is undeniable. 

Figaro, London, June ^th. 1893. 

“The Shadow of Desire is a very entrancing work. The originality 
and startling situations which mark the story cannot fail to secure for it 
great popularity" 

Christian Globe, London, June %%nd, 1893 

CLOTH, $1.25. 

Cleveland Publishing Co., 19 Union Sq., New York. 

SOLE AGENTS FOR ENGLAND I 

GAY & BIRD, 27 King William Street, West Strand, London, 


The Physiology of Love 

In this work, the masterpiece of the world-renowned 
author, science reveals the naked truth, morality throws over 
it the mantle of modesty, poetic fancy embellishes it. 


rAPEn COVER, $1.00. CLOTS, $1.50. 


CLEVELAND PUBLISHING COMPANY, 

19 Union Square, 

New York. 

SOLE AGENTS FOR ENGLAND: 

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TO HIS OWN MASTER 


A NOVEL 


BY 


ALAN ST. AUBYN, 

Author of “A Fellow of Trinity/’ “The Junior Dean,” “The Old 
Maid’s Sweetheart,’’ Etc., Etc. 


cxjOthi, $1.00. so©: 


CLEVELAND PUBLISHING COMPANY, 
No. 19 Union Square, 


NEW YORK, 


ONE NEVER KNOWS. 

BY 

IF. O. 

Author of “As In a Looking Glass.’' 


OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 

“A well enough told story,” 

The Evening Telegram^ New York, Aug. 6th, 1993. 

“An exceptionally well written story and one of realistic forcefulness too,” 
Boston Ideas, Boston, Mass,, Aug. 6th, 1893. 

“The side-characters are ably contrasted, and the incidents in the story 
ar* well wrought out * * * It is an interesting story, and once begun 
will be eagerly finished,” BostonTimes, Boston, Mass,, Aug, 8th, 1893, 

“As spicy as might be expected from his pen.” 

Evening Post, Denver, Col. Aug. 13th, 1893. 

“It is quite in touch with what the public want and what the readers of 
fiction will have.” Noah's Times, New York, Aug. 12th, 1893. 

“This new novel is bound to prove a dangerous rival for honors. * * * 
It is in every way a very charming book — and one of intense interest.” 

Loreland Reporter, Loreland, Col., Aug, 24th, 1893. 

“It is an interesting story.” Telephone, Phila., Pa., Sept. 16th, 1893. 

‘ ‘The story has a commendable degree of dramatic interest. 

Boston Budget, Boston, Mass., Sept. 24th, 1893. 


50 CEITT'S. 


CLEVELAND PUBLISHING COMPANY, 
19 Union Square, 

NEW YORK. 


li 

A STORY FOR CHILDREN 

BY 

VALENTINE VALENTINE, 



ILLUSTRATED BY 

FRANK ARNOLD. 


:pt^io:h 3 , oxjOth, $1.50. 


CLEVELAND PUBLISHING COMPANY, 

No. 19 Union Square, 

NEW YORK. 

SOLE AGENTS FOR ENGLAND ; 

GAY & BIRD, 27 King William Street, West Strand, London. 


SOLE AGENTS FOR FRANCE : 

THE GALIGNANI LIBRARY, 224 Ru» de Rivoli, Paris. 









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Union Square Series. 


No. 1.— The Malachite Cross. By Frank H. 

Norton. Price, 50 cts. 

No. 2.— A Game at Platonics and Other 
Stories. By F. C. Philips, author of 
‘‘As in a Looking Glass.” . . Price, 50 cts. 

No, 8.- Society's Protegee and A Modern 
Sinner. By Maude James Chilton. 
Price, 50 cts. 

No. 4.— A Modern Metempsychosis. By Val- 
entine Valentine, author of “ Gotham 
and the Gothamites.” .... Price, 50 cts. 

No. 5. — One Never Knows. By ‘F. C. Philips, 
author of “As in a Looking Glass.” 

. Price, 50 cts. 

No. 6.— My Footlight Husband. By Alan 

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For sale hy all newsdealers in the United States, or sent by 
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Subscription price, $6.00 per year. 

Address 

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19 Union Square, NEW YORK. 



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